Perception
by fridaylights
Summary: Joseph Solomon had always been an enigma. First it was Blackthorne and the Circle, then the CIA and Gallagher. Despite the tragedy that followed him at every corner, it was the Morgans that made sure he stayed human—even in the midst of one of the largest intelligence scandals in history. [Zammie; OC/Joe; Abby/Townsend; Joe/Rachel/Matt]
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer** : The characters of the Gallagher Girls (and potentially Embassy Row and Heist Society) belong to Ally Carter. All original contents, ideas, and intellectual property of this story are owned by _fridaylights._ Please do not copy, reproduce, or translate without express written permission. This disclaimer applies to the entirety of this fanfiction.

 **AN:** Here it is. While I know the fandom hasn't been active as of late, the epilogues have given me a burst of inspiration I can't ignore. Favorite, follow, and most important of all—comment!

 **AN #2** : Remember, Rachel and Joe's wedding is endgame, and all roads lead there. This is my take on how Joe Solomon ended where he did.

 **BOOK 1**

 **CHAPTER ONE**

Joseph Solomon loved his job. He really did. His life had revolved around covert operations for the past decade of his life, swapping covers faster than a stage actor and spending more time on the field than relaxing. However, it was times like these, dressed in an uncomfortable tuxedo and a communication unit, that he wished that he was anywhere _but_ Buckingham Palace.

It wasn't very often that the President of the United States was commissioned for a visit to England to meet the Queen herself. Presidential trips usually called for an entire crew of security details and emergency protocols; more often than not, the leader of the country was protected at every angle by the Secret Service. To say that Joe was surprised would be an understatement, when he received a notice from Langley that he would be needed abroad. While he had a ridiculously high level of clearance, it still wasn't enough to figure out why even the _Baxters_ were called in from MI6 to assist with the royals' safety.

The mission would have been interesting if he knew why some of the world's best were gathered in one place to protect a handful of individuals that rarely required such extreme measures. But he didn't, and Joe had learned to stop asking questions when he was sixteen years old and was entangled in a deadly organization, where speaking his mind would simply pave a one-way road to his grave.

Regardless, surveillance ops were boring, and he despised any sort of assignment that dulled his senses and forced him to travel through rotations for hours on end. He was stationed near one of the Southern entrances into the large ballroom, watching wealth and power converse with one another. His sharp gaze tracked every movement, memorizing faces and following gestures. He passed the palace guards with a wry smile on his face, and eyed their uniforms of red tunics and bearskin hats.

The British had a knack for subtlety. It would explain why they required so many different task forces at their parties.

He was hastily checking the reflection of the door behind him through a waiter's silver platter of snacks when a woman with a flute of champagne came to stand besides him. He raised an eyebrow, absorbing her appearance in a single glance the only way a trained operative would. Her navy dress hugged her figure, fabric clinging to her toned body. Her hair was curled to frame her face, though just enough to reveal the diamond earrings dangling from her ears. There was absolutely nothing interesting about another female searching men to flock around. He scoffed; it was likely that she was the Prince's escort for the evening. While the male in him appreciated her, his priorities overtook those small desires.

"You know, you remind me of a younger version of one of our English actors," she said, her voice carrying the accent of a British native. She hit a palm against her forehead, light bouncing off of a diamond ring around her forefinger. "That handsome man, in those spy movies..." she trailed.

He raised an eyebrow and kept his gaze trained on the flurry of activity ahead, mildly annoyed that someone had chosen to interrupt him. He preferred to observe in _silence_. "Daniel Craig?" he offered helpfully—he had a sore spot for spy films, as ridiculous as it sounded, considering his profession.

"You're not British," she said in surprise. When he didn't reply, clearly not in the mood for the casual conversation she had been aiming for, she tapped his hip rather intrusively. "That's a nice gun you've got there."

He grabbed her wrist, surprised; an escort _definitely_ wouldn't have noticed his gun. "MI6?" he inquired, releasing her and folding his hands in front of him.

"Interpol," she added. Her accent dropped with her next words and she smiled mischievously, adjusting her hair—more so to show him the comms unit nestled in her ear, hidden strategically by her dark locks. "I also have an affinity for the American agencies."

He narrowed his eyes. "CIA? You must be a visiting agent," he concluded, murmuring as guests swept past them. "I never knew we were conducting a cross-branch exchange."

She simply shrugged, offering no answer in return.

Their comms units, which had been buzzing in the background with the usual chatter, crackled when a loud, booming voice took over. " _The subjects will be leaving the premises at precisely T-minus nine. Bond and Duchess are posted at the Southern entrance and will jumpstart the extraction process..._ " Their executive droned on, but the woman turned to him and laughed incredulously.

"James Bond? Really?"

He bristled. "We both know that we're not the ones to pick our names. Besides, Duchess is just as bad."

"Oh, mine isn't _half_ as bad." She patted a small indentation near her hip, indicating where one of many weapons were stashed. "Better get moving. Catch you later, _Bond_."

"Same goes for you, _Duchess_."

She swept out of the room, her heels clicking on the tiled floors as one of the assisting members of the palace—most likely an undercover agent—accompanied her outside. Joe watched her retreating form curiously, and then regarded his new companion.

"Abraham," he nodded.

The man allowed for a small smile of acknowledgement. "Did I hear something about a cross-branch exchange?" he inquired, tilting his head towards the exit.

Joe chuckled. "Apparently so. I'm assuming you know her?" He weighed his friend's concerned expression and pursed his lips. "Is it something to be concerned about?"

"That was an employed assassin, Solomon," Abraham Baxter said gruffly. He fiddled with his cufflinks, most likely rewiring his comms unit. "We haven't commissioned one of those for events like these ever since Blackthorne was asked to stage an overthrow of a Zimbabwean dictator."

He pressed his lips together in a firm line. "Murphy is here, all the way from Taiwan, and he runs in the same business. This doesn't sound good."

"It doesn't," the British man agreed. He glanced at the departing queen and bid him farewell with an inclination of his head. "Whatever you do, Solomon—keep yourself out of the eye of the storm."

* * *

Matthew Morgan folded and unfolded the napkin in front of him repeatedly, his fingers busy in the nervous habit. Across from him, his best friend raised his eyebrows in question. His friend of over ten years was possibly the most collected human he knew, calm and right-minded, able to tackle any sort of situation with ease. He was the balance that Joe needed in his life to be able to stop his fumbling and finally leave the Circle.

When the while piece of cloth was unfolded for the thirty-fourth time in the last five minutes, Joe snatched it away from his hands.

"What's on your mind?"

With a sigh, Matt rubbed the unshaved shadow on his face. "Someone tried to grab Cammie when we were in Rome last week." He pursed his lips and averted his gaze, hazel eyes focusing out the window instead. "I think we both know who was behind that."

A heavy weight of guilt settled in Joe's stomach and he frowned. "Is she okay? Did you find who it was?"

Matt shook his head. "Thank God, she had the sense to disappear on the streets, but Rachel and I couldn't find her for hours. We thought she was dead, especially after they left their little calling card in my pocket."

"Pavement artist," he said quietly. "She has Morgan in her blood, after all."

His friend chuckled. "Of course, an eight year-old is a bit too small to be able to knock a man out, so we were left without a trail. I hope she grows up to remember that in some circumstances, flight is much more useful than fight." At his younger friend's silence, Matt frowned and studied his troubled expression. "This isn't your fault, Solomon. If anything, they're on my tail for the hunt I'm on—not because of you."

"They know my technique better than anyone else. _They're_ the ones that trained me." Joe glanced away and replaced his guilt with an unreadable mask. "I'm the one that brought this mess to you. All they have to do is track me the same way they have for the past fifteen years, and they'll have Cammie."

Matt was moments away from responding, when a slim woman slid into the booth besides her husband. The smile disappeared off of her face when she noted the grim expressions the two men wore. She furrowed her eyebrows, running her fingers through her chocolate colored hair.

"You're talking about Rome again, aren't you?" Her gaze flickered between them, clearly disapproving. "That wasn't anyone's fault, except for mine. I should have kept her in my sight." Before Matthew could protest, she lifted a hand to silence him. "What we're doing—trying to bring them down—is going to put us on their list of targets. People are going to die, maybe even one of us." The acceptance in her tone was chilling and she moistened her dry lips. "The best you two can do is move the hell on and work to make sure they don't take any other innocents and convert them into mass murderers."

She paused when a waitress came to set food before them. She exhaled at the sudden silence, and fixed Joe with a stern gaze. "Are you sure you don't want to meet her?"

He shook his head adamantly, though his emerald eyes were bright with pain. It had been nearly seven years since the last time he'd met the Morgan's daughter, when she was merely a few months old. As much as it hurt him to deny his friends' constant requests to meet their only child, he couldn't bring himself to do it. Cameron Morgan was the daughter of some of the most talented spies he knew—and some of the only people that he allowed himself to care for. The minute he let his guard down, the Circle would find yet another tool to tear through his heart and bring into the crosshairs of their fight.

After all, relationships were liabilities, and the mistakes he made in his youth would haunt him forever. There were some luxuries that he would _never_ have, a fact that he accepted early in his career.

"I will give my life to your daughter in a heartbeat, but it's best she doesn't know who I am. She's safe in Nebraska, isn't she?"

"Yes, but—" Matt interjected.

Joe clenched his jaw. " _No_ ," he insisted, his voice booming, and caught the attention of an adjacent table. He cleared his throat with an apologetic frown and lowered his tone. He rose from his seat, despite Rachel's protests, and dropped bills onto the table next to his untouched sandwich. "I have a tail," he muttered under his breath, realizing that the guests only a few seats away had stares that lingered too long.

Before he departed, he fixed his gaze to the floor, too ashamed to meet the eyes of the people that had thrown themselves into the face of danger to keep him alive. He already knew that the first time he would meet Cameron Morgan would be in dire circumstances, and inadvertently hoped that day would never come.

"All I'm going to bring to your family is destruction," he said. His refusal to listen to any consolations dared them to argue. "You should have found a different godfather."


	2. Chapter 2

**AN** : Yes, the Duchess in the previous chapter is NOT Bex. That will be explained in around six or so chapters. Joe Solomon is 30 as of this chapter, but will be 31 once the story rolls into the next year's springtime. According to my outline, he was 35 when Matt died and 39 when he thereafter joined Gallagher. As always, reviews bring speedier updates!

 **CHAPTER TWO**

Staring at the folded piece of paper he had found in his pocket moments ago, Joe sighed. There really was no such thing as a vacation day. It was the result of a cleverly orchestrated brush pass that he had barely noticed. Despite the fact that he was one of seven people in the Henley's gallery of Renaissance art, the culprit had practically disappeared into thin air before he could identify them. He flipped the crumpled strip over and stared at the narrow text of a reciept. It was the same restaurant he had met the Morgans at, merely twenty-seven hours ago. Certain letters were bolded and he frowned; Matt wouldn't put himself through an overcomplicated manuever for a simple meeting. A heavy weight settled in the pit of his stomach; someone was following him through London, and it was likely the same tail that forced him to abruptly leave his companions the day before.

Not that he minded. At the time, it had been the perfect excuse to get out of a conversation he did _not_ want to have.

He skimmed over the easy code, the letters and numbers rearranging themselves into an address in his head. He frowned; anyone willing to give him such an effortless lead to follow was confident. The "blueberry" in the mixed berry smoothie was underlined with a light pencil mark, as were the last four letters of "purslane" in the purslane salad. From what he remembered, Rachel was the one that had ordered both... maybe a cashier's replica of their receipt? He pulled out his phone and flicked through a map of London.

Bloomsbury Lane was a match.

As he exited the museum and sped down the streets, he used every counterintelligence maneuver in the books—and those that he created on his own. He flipped directions and backed down alleyways, grabbed a darker coat and pulled on a baseball cap. By the time he reached his hotel room, he was sure that there was no one following him.

He slid into the emergency staircase and endured a six story hike to his room. He preferred to sacrifice the comfort of an elevator for an easier escape route. Besides, the confinement of elevators reminded him too much of the boxy rooms that Blackthorne would brutally lock its students into, all for the sake of creating assassins that performed in all conditions. Though he found it pointless as a teenager, he was surprised at the amount of times he was stuck in a jail cell with the task of executing someone that the public thought dead.

After slipping his access card in, he swept a gaze across his spotless hotel room and slid into the bathroom. He carefully lifted the ceramic cover over the toilet's water tank and pulled out a waterproof satchel.

The Glock felt comforting at his hip.

Four taxi cabs, a bicycle, and a double-decker bus later, he was on Bloomsbury Lane. His lip curled in distaste; there were barely any pedestrians on the streets, and the open environment made him uneasy. All someone had to do was climb up to the rooftops with a rifle to pick him out of the crowds. The streets were lined with small shops and the typical tourist traps, with doorways tucked away next to the glass displays, most likely opening into the apartments on the second and third floors. He gave a cursory glance at the second message on the back of the receipt: " _The Ace holds two faces in the Joker's game._ "

Blackjack. Building number eleven, apartment number one. He picked out the correct address—a quaint little electronics store with movies—before realization dawned on him.

A poster featured Cold War era Soviet spy films. His lips quirked into a smirk and he twisted the knob of the door next to the main entrance. There was one apartment on the level above _Cinema_ _Emporium_.

"That took you longer than I thought it would." A woman stood in the threshold, her hand on her hip as she examined him with sharp, grey eyes. The way she held herself—poised, lithe, and prepared—reminded him of a cat. "Was my message too difficult?"

He straightened his shoulders, insulted. "I was busy admiring Raphael. You interrupted my break," he said. "Besides, Hutton's cryptography was meant for _children._ "

She waved a hand dismissively and opened the door all the way, allowing him inside. "Or _maybe_ you were trying to figure what went wrong during the Henley heist last year."

Joe thought back to the international art scare that had seized the world when rumors of the infiltration of the safest museum in the world hit the news. He was _immensely_ interested in why a man as clever as Bobby Bishop—someone that even Abigail Cameron had difficulty in tracking down—had attempted to carry out such a broad scale attack in a building with security equivalent to Fort Knox. Motive was key and mistakes were a rarity, which was why he found it so hard to believe that the man _wanted_ to be caught on camera.

"That may have been a factor," he admitted, and scanned the expanse of the small studio. There was no furniture except for a mattress pushed against the wall, and a desk and chair on the other side of the room. Cobwebs were bundled in the corners of the ceiling and dust covered every surface. One glance at the floor told him that the previous owner had raised more than a few animals, as deep scratches marred the hardwood.

She caught him staring at the state of the living space and grimaced. "Charming, isn't it? They don't pay me nearly as much as they should." She grabbed a small backpack amid a bundle of blankets on the mattress and pulled out a laptop and several manila folders.

He strolled across the room to glance out the window, moving a heavy velvet curtain aside, matted with mothballs. A glint of light bounced off a reflective surface outside and flashed him in his eyes; he immediately closed the curtains. "You have a—"

"A sniper. I know," she said, a pen in her mouth as she shuffled through papers. "I want him to know I'm here."

He furrowed his eyebrows, and maintained a cool composure though he was extremely uncomfortable. "Why did you call me here? The last time I saw you, it was for twenty minutes and three weeks ago."

She circled the table, leaned against its edge and held a print out towards him. It was a photograph from when he departed Buckingham in his own private vehicle. Behind him was a man circled in a red marker—he wore a black coat and was dressed formally, emerging from the same event, caught taking a picture on his cellphone of presumably the SUV's license plate.

"Pray tell, why is that I have been commissioned to capture the same person that has been following you for the past three weeks?" she questioned.

He walked forward, taking a stack of prints from her hand. Him, with Rachel and Matt, dining near the same man only three tables away. Then it was the clerk at the hotel, a guard at the Henley.

"How the hell did I miss this?" he muttered under his breath. He gritted his teeth, angered by his sloppiness. He had been so busy looking for threats hiding in crevices that he had missed a glaringly obvious one in the open.

She shrugged. "Let me tell you one thing, _Bond._ I don't clean up other people's messes. If this is something that concerns you, then..." she trailed, "I suggest you take this one on your own."

Joe looked up at her, narrowing his eyes. "Who put you on this mission?"

She seemed to debate giving him an answer, and paused momentarily. "Max Edwards." When he visibly clenched his jaw, she raised an eyebrow. "Not a fan, I assume."

"That's one way to put it," he snorted. Agent Edwards was hell bent on digging into his past, and his history with the Circle was something that the CIA didn't need to know about, especially after all the trouble he had gone to bury it. "I want in on this." At the flash in her eyes, he corrected himself. "Not as help—this is your mission. I just need to know who this is."

What he didn't tell her, of course, were his plans to silence the man in case he was another one of the Circle's loyal followers, duped into Ioseph's legacy of destruction.

"No interference," she emphasized. "We do this _my_ way."

He nodded in assent. While he enjoyed his work, he wasn't particularly eager to take on a case that wasn't his. He held out his hand for her to shake, and said, "Joe Solomon. But you probably knew that."

She grinned. "Katherine Pierce. But you probably knew that, too."

* * *

"Edwards."

"Solomon."

Their greeting was ridiculously unsociable, and as Rachel Morgan slid into the elevator behind them, she voiced her disdain.

"Now, children. Forgiveness is key to life." She leaned forward and pressed her thumb against the small biometric scanner, and opened her eyes a little wider for the laser that read her irises.

Maxwell Edwards kept his line of sight fixed in front of him, his posture as stiff as his over-starched suit. "If Joe has done something regrettable that I need to forgive him for, then he should first explain to me what it is."

"How dense do you think his head is, for him not to understand that he should be the one apologizing to _me_ for his assholic behavior?" Joe scoffed, his eyes in Rachel as he refused to recognize the third occupant in the small enclosure.

Rachel sighed dramatically and watched the floor number on a digital screen increase as they descended into the sublevels.

"That's very mature. Talking about me third person."

"You know what's even _more_ mature? Asking an assassin to tail me!"

The woman tore her gaze away from the digital numbers. "You _what_?" She fixed a glower in his direction. "What warranted that action, Edwards?"

"You were aligned with a possible perpetrator in Her Majesty's palace. He was tailing _you_ before I set her after the two of you to take care of our little problem."

"So you commissioned an assassin," Rachel replied flatly, ignoring Joe's satisfied smile as he substantiated his hatred for the man. "Whoever put you in authority must have a screw loose in their head."

The elevator doors slid open at Sublevel Sixteen, and the intercom announced their presence in a robotic tone. " _Agent Rachel Morgan, CIA, clearance level twenty-seven. Mr. Maxwell Edwards, Interpol, special clearance level thirty-two. Agent Joseph Solomon..."_

"Interpol, the policeman of international affairs did," Maxwell shot back. "Along with your agency—hence, my presence here, and higher clearance level."

Joe had the inexplicable urge to punch the smug grin off his face.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I must tend to much more _pressing_ matters than an elementary-level argument." His gaze locked with Joe's and his eyes glittered with mirth. "Remember, Solomon. If you've done something regrettable..."

Tight-lipped, Joe roughly brushed pass the man and silently walked down the opposite hallway. He could hear Rachel's heels clicking against the tiles as she rapidly sped forth to catch up to him. She grabbed his arm, forcing him to slow down.

"He doesn't know a thing," she insisted. "Relax, Joe. It's behind you."

He raised an eyebrow and cast a sideways glance, her brown locks slightly mussed from running after him in three-inch heels and a sculpted pencil skirt. "It won't be behind me if you keep talking that loud."

Rachel rolled her eyes upwards. "Stop being dramatic, Solomon. Now, about this assassin..."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"What about Career Day at Gallagher?"

"I don't want to talk about that either."

"Joe—"

"So, where's Cammie?" he interrupted, an obvious attempt to divert their conversation. His green eyes were fixed on the grey linoleum tiles of the endless expanse of hallway.

Accustomed to the moods of the men around her, Rachel went along with it. "She's in the computer lab with the other kids. They're having a Minecraft hacking marathon until four."

"Aren't you supposed to be picking her up soon?" he said, phrasing his words carefully so that it didn't seem as if he was trying to escape her.

Rachel slowed to a halt in front of the glass walls of one of the many computer laboratories in the sublevels. "I _am_ picking her up," she said, tapping on the glass and waving at her daughter. "You're supposed to be two levels below me with Stanford to debrief about last month's Kyoto mission, remember?"

Joe's blood froze as he watched the carbon copy of Matthew Morgan wave back with a toothy grin. She collected her things and emerged from a small group of children her size. He immediately turned around when he saw the girl sprinting to the door, and was already walking away when he heard Rachel call after him.

"Joe! _Really_?"

"You shouldn't have done that, Rachel," he muttered under his breath, definitely not loud enough for her to hear.

As he was walking away, he heard the girl's childish, high-pitched voice raise in a question. "Mommy, who was that?"

He was already in the elevator when she answered.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN** : If anyone has any suggestions on improving the character of Joseph Solomon, let me know! Reviews bring updates, so let's try and hit a milestone of ten!

 **CHAPTER THREE**

"I am _so_ drunk."

After so many years of friendship, Joe shouldn't have been surprised when he picked up the phone to hear her uttering those words. Abigail Cameron was talented when it came to flipping her emotional switch on and off through the day. He supposed tonight was one of those moments where she flipped it _off_ , most likely the product of a haywire mission or a particularly regrettable action.

He sighed and glanced at his phone to check if they were on a secure line. "Where are you?"

"Roseville Carnival. The bars were having a special and I was feeling festive." There was a loud crash on the other end and a distinct 'oops'. "I think I might need you to pick me up. The owner is getting impatient and Rachel is going to be upset I was drinking."

Joe rubbed a tired hand over his face and glanced at the clock. It was eleven o'clock at night, and he was severely jetlagged from days of hopping across Europe. "And Matt isn't there either?" Throwing his friend under the bus was a last ditch effort, he knew, and a pathetic one.

"He's with Cammie on the merry go round. If I go anywhere near that damn thing, I'm going to be sick."

He stared up at the ceiling and groaned. "I'll be there in ten minutes. Don't... don't touch any guns."

"Oh, _Joe_ ," she reprimanded him, her grin evident in her tone. "What did I say about mentioning Porto Alegre?"

With an exasperated eye-roll, he quickly hung up the phone and grabbed his jacket off of the back of his chair. He quickly closed the copies of Katherine's mission briefings and slid them into a safe. Grudgingly, she had allowed him to peek into the circumstances of her mission and sent him the files two weeks later. Though he had them engraved into his memory, it was the second day in a row that he sat down to stare at the profile of her target.

David Schmitz. Famous black-market entrepreneur. And, though no one knew it, he was a very prominent donor to the Circle of Cavan.

Blackthorne Academy had a group of notable alumni that they advertised with pride to their students. None of them were particularly good men, each one submerged in the underground world of covert operations, on the wrong side of the law. The Schmitz family was one of those notable alumni. David had never gone to the school, probably due to the fact that his father and grandfather could offer him a perfectly sound education at home, but he was one of the recruiters that wandered around campus regularly. Though he seemed like a leisurely friend to most, he had a very sound focus: to entrap the teenage boys of Blackthorne in the Circle's business.

The more boys he had, the more pawns he could have to put on missions in his favor. Eventually, his wealth surged and the Circle remained fully funded.

Joe Solomon was one of those pathetic boys—desperate, homeless, and trained—that fell into his trap. And now that David had his lackeys from the institution on his tail, there was no way that he was going to evade capture from both the Circle _and_ the CIA.

It was that easy. Exposure could ruin everything that he had built for himself after some very small mistakes.

Ten minutes later, just as he'd told Abby, he pulled the key from his ignition and waited in the parking lot. He could see the glow from the rides and happy chatter. The smell of corn dogs and buttery popcorn filled the air, and he grimaced when his stomach growled. He activated the tracker that he had on the woman's phone—standard protocol in their friend group, in case one of them went missing. When the red dot blinked over Gallagher Academy in the outskirts of Roseville, he hit his steering wheel with an open palm in anger.

"Drunk, _my ass_ ," he mumbled.

She had lured him out right where she wanted him, and he had no choice but to follow into the school. He idly remembered Rachel pestering him about attending a career fair that many Gallagher alumni returned for, but advertising his work at a girls' school was definitely not his priority. Though he knew that plenty of officers and high level officials from all the spy institutions made a special appearance for the academy, it reminded him too much of the sinister version of career hunting at Blackthorne.

"See, I told you he would come." Rachel turned to her younger sister and smiled triumphantly, but the woman was busy flashing Joe a mischievous grin.

She flipped her dark hair over her shoulder and eyed the man surreptitiously. "Well, I guess I was wrong." She flashed him a blindingly white smile. "It's a good thing he showed, huh? Repair his image and all..."

"My image doesn't need repairing," he grumbled.

Ignoring his words, Abby looped her arm through his—pinching him when he tried to pull away—and towed him through the grand doors of the Gallagher ballroom.

"Looks like the girls like you, Mr. Eye Candy," she hummed under her breath.

He noticed, too. The room had delved into an awkward silence for a fraction of a second, before the bustle continued. He could tell they were staring at him, whether they be twelve or eighteen, and he was growing increasingly uncomfortable. Many of them were eyeing the way Abby held his arm, as if trying to calculate the extent of their relationship. He was growing more and more amused by the teenage hormones, until he caught the eye of a suited man near the Interpol booth.

"Fucking hell," he growled. Max Edwards was looking him up and down, as if judging his casual pair of trousers and light sweater.

Abby laughed next to him. "Fashion police," she announced dramatically. "I'm going to leave you for some actual booze this time. Madame Dabne has champagne in her room." She patted his chest lightly—a movement that did not go unnoticed by the girls. "Feel free to join me once you sort out your differences."

And with that, she pecked him on the lips and disappeared with a fluorish.

Joe blinked. As did many disappointed young women around him.

His best course of action was to evade Max. The last thing he needed was to look like the "bad guy" in front of dozens of spies in training, many he would see on the field eventually. He blindly ambled outside the ballroom and in the direction Abby had departed; he was better off getting a drink rather than conversing with infatuated teenagers about his life. A tall figure was standing in front of pictures of Gallagher alumni by year, and he nearly collided with her when she turned suddenly.

Catching her by the elbows, he thought it was Abby for a split moment—the two had almost identical dark hair. However, his mouth opened in surprise when he realized it was someone else entirely.

"Katherine," he greeted, releasing her immediately.

She looked just as surprised to see him. "What are you doing here? You definitely didn't graduate from here, and I doubt you're manning a stall with Edwards."

"I had a few... friends that wanted me to come," he explained, wrinkling his nose. "What about you?"

A small laugh bubbled from her lips, a break from the professional attitude she carried around him before. "I'm Gallagher alumni." At the expression he gave her, she said, "Don't look too impressed. I wasn't recruited until my junior year of high school and spent summers and breaks trying to cram my education into two years."

His gaze flicked to the framed picture of girls that had graduated her year, to the image of a young woman with the typical off-the-shoulder gown. A small smirk played at her lips, her tired eyes staring into the camera. Not much had changed over the past ten years, except for the increased maturity age brought and a narrower frame from an onslaught of stress.

They dissolved into silence and he scanned the other names in her graduating class. When he reached some of the initial names of the alphabet, he found Abigail Cameron.

As if reading his thoughts, she chuckled. "We were in the same class, yes. Roommates, too, and good friends over the years." Her lips quirked upwards and she cast him a curious glance. "Color me surprised when I caught wind of a new significant other. I didn't know you were..."

"No," Joe said quickly, grimacing. She must have seen the spectacle that Abby had made in the ballroom. "She has a..."

"...unique sense of humor," Katherine finished.

Impeccably timed, Abby's loud call echoed across the entrance. "Goddammit, Joe, don't tell me you were leaving!" She slinked closer and a grin broke out across her face when she recognized her friend. "Well, if it isn't _Cara Pierce_! How's London treating you?"

Grey eyes sparkling with amusement, she wrapped her arms around her friend. "Just got back a few days ago." She looked embarrassed for a split second over the nickname, and ran her fingers through her hair to express her exhaustion. "I was just about to—"

"Oh, bullshit." Abby looped her arm through hers, grabbed Joe by the shirt, and towed her companions into the staff lounge for a night of alcohol.

Madame Dabney did the best she could to ensure proprietary within the room. But behind closed doors and secluded from the girls that had retired to the upper floors for the night, there was nothing she could do to control many of the adults in the room. Though the numbers dwindled after the event to a tighter circle of companions, copious amounts of champagne were consumed.

"What agency did you join after Gallagher?" Professor Smith, the retired operative and Countries of the World instructor, was interrogating Katherine in the most polite way he could muster.

Joe watched her run her tongue over her dry lips. "I'm hired on contract by the agencies, sir," she said, addressing him as if he were a drill sergeant rather than a man that had undergone plastic surgery more times than Megan Fox. "I've been popular with the CIA, Interpol, and MI6."

"And what do you do under your contracts?" he pressed.

She answered in a heartbeat. "I eliminate their targets."

Rachel tore her gaze away from the elderly headmistress of Gallagher. She glanced at Joe, putting the pieces together instantly, and frowned. "Who do you target? Terrorists, or agents that are viewed as liabilities?"

Her younger sister sighed, reading the woman's sour attitude and intervened. " _Rachel_ —"

"I'm sure you will understand when I say that information is confidential."

Joe's eyes narrowed and his suspicion spiked. She shouldn't have known what Rachel was referencing, and judging by her snappy tone, Katherine had felt the need to defend herself. From what he had gathered, Max Edwards had commissioned her under the false pretenses of a black market entrepreneur to lead her to Joe. Unless, of course, he had been the primary target all along. He had been cautious from the beginning, and instantly understood the distaste apparent on Rachel's face. Sometimes her mothering carried through into her daily life, but he knew she meant well. She always did, from the first day that Matt had introduced her.

The atmosphere had shifted to slightly more forced, and he could tell that Katherine remained purely out of obligation to her former headmistress.

"What do I call you?" he asked suddenly.

Her eyebrows drew together in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Agent Pierce, Katherine, Cara..." he trailed. He gestured at his glass of wine and smiled. "After all, we've shared drinks. I think 'Agent Pierce' is a bit too formal."

For a minute, he thought he had overstepped some sort of invisible boundary. "Cara," she finally answered. "And I suppose Joe is fine by you? Unless you'd like me to adopt one of Abby's ridiculous pet-names."

Joe shook his head and chuckled. "I think 'Joe' will suffice—"

"Headmistress Williams." Agent Edwards knocked against the door lightly and inclined his head to the woman. "I just wanted to thank you for the evening." He held a large briefcase in his hand, most likely filled with the products of his recruiting booth for the Interpol.

Joe found it hard to ignore him, especially when the man repeatedly glanced between him and Cara mid-conversation. The headmistress offered him refreshments, but instead, he politely declined and tapped Cara on her shoulder.

"I would like a word with you before I leave, Agent Pierce."

Her response was a curt nod before she departed; the façade of formality returned and Cara was instantly replaced with _Agent Pierce_.

* * *

Max barely glanced at her while they strolled across the Gallagher's lawn, dimly lit in the darkness. "How has your mission been progressing?"

"Well enough," Cara replied curtly. She could hear a group of boys outside the gates—most likely drunk from the carnival—whispering about breaking in, and she idly wondered whether she should inform someone.

"I am glad to see that you are fostering a relationship with the Morgans, as we planned. However, I did not anticipate your friendship with Abigail Cameron."

She bristled, irritated. "With all due respect, sir, my personal connections are none of your business. I made a contract with you on very specific terms, and I will honor them."

He stopped walking, and whether it was from anger or annoyance, she did not know. "It is imperative that you understand the importance of the task I have assigned to you. You will get close to Joe Solomon and serve his head to me on a platter. That man entered the CIA with barely any record of his past other than Blackthorne, and I refuse to acknowledge that he is entirely innocent."

She pursed her lips and brushed her hair out of her face when a breeze swept through the air. "I told you before, Mr. Edwards. I have a contract with you, and _I will honor it_. I am sure you have researched the rate of success I have with my missions."

"Ninety-seven percent," Max confirmed. "Again, I appreciate your help. God knows that proving his connections with the Circle of Cavan will be no easy task. Catherine Goode had to come out in the open for any agency to believe me, and by then, she had gone under too deep of a cover for anyone to catch her."

She slid her hands into the back pockets of her jeans and rocked back on her heels. She didn't know the redhead well, but she was in the same year as Rachel Morgan and a legend in CoveOps. She thought back to the ordeal in the lounge room, and frowned. Rachel would definitely be a problem, and she knew why she had always avoided her during their school years. She was beautiful and guarded, and even her younger sister's best friend could not break through to her. Briefly, regret flashed through her for bringing Abby in the crossfires, but she knew sacrificing her personal connections was inevitable.

Regardless, it brought a bitter taste to her mouth.

"You know, when you hired an assassin, the assumption was that I would be burying a target for you. Simple tailing and deception are not my usual methods."

Max chuckled lowly. "In due time, Agent Pierce. You will have your chance to pull the trigger, as soon as I have exposed, evicted, and walked all over Agent Solomon."


	4. Chapter 4

**AN** : To those that asked, next chapter will be a little (VERY long) Zammie vignette. The format of this fic will most likely be three or four chapters from the past, and one from the future, and most—if not all—the future ones will feature our favorite OTP. Anyone that's logged in and reviews will get a little sneak peak, so make sure your PMs are open!

 **CHAPTER FOUR**

"You never told me you were on a mission with Cara." Abby tried to keep her tone casual, but there was a distinct hint of accusation.

Joe shrugged, much to her vexation. "It never came up," he said simply.

"I guess it never came up either, that she was the assassin tailing you," Rachel remarked callously.

He could feel her building anger and he sighed. They were gathered in his lake-side safehouse, and the last thing he wanted to do on a rare day off was argue.

"Rachel, calm down," Matt muttered to his wife. "Let's step back from this situation and look at it subjectively. What do we know about her?"

"Well, for one, we've been friends for over twelve years," Abby interjected bitterly, unhinged by the thought of her childhood friend targeting a man that was practically family.

Her sister rolled her eyes. "People can change in twelve years," she pointed out. "She's been commissioned on a private investigation by Max Edwards. We don't even know if it has been certified by _any_ agency, and what her specific operation requirements are." Her gaze slid to Joe. "Don't think that some sort of friendship will put you on her good side. She's under contract, and hell breaks loose when an assassin violates their terms."

Joe decided not to disclose the fact that she had given him a copy of her operation details. The files he had were definitely censored copies, specific pieces of information omitted. For all he knew, he could have been given a fake report. But the mission against David seemed justified, and for a moment, he wondered if he was wrong to lower his suspicions so easily. It had always been difficult for him to open himself to others—after all, relationships truly were liabilities, and the less he had, the more protected he was.

The unofficial collaboration with Cara was purely professional, and it was in his interests to join her to suppress certain evidences from reaching the covert world. If it came down to it, he was prepared to take whatever drastic means necessary for self-preservation. It was selfish for him to think—especially with Abby sitting only a few feet away—but he would inadvertently protect the three of them as well. The CIA had a habit of branching out when in search of a suspect, and he could not watch passively as his friends were dragged into the crosshairs of a conflict with the Circle.

From across the room, Matt was staring at him carefully. His expression was clear. _We need to talk_. Joe knew that lying to the man would be counterproductive. On the occasion his past was exposed, Matt would be the first one evicted, despite the fact that he was the Circle's prime target due to his aggressive effort to bring them down.

"Solomon. A word?"

He nodded reluctantly and followed his best friend to an adjacent room. The two sisters were most definitely listening, and Matt kept his voice hushed.

"Doesn't the timing of this strike you as odd?" Matt inquired, leaned back against the kitchen counters and crossed his arms.

Joe furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. "Unless you forgot to tell me something, the timing of these seems just as annoyingly inconvienent as everything else in my life."

His friend glared at the hardwood floors, and rubbed his eyes. After a pause, he said, "I found the big-shots."

Joe's eyes shot upwards in surprise. "The Inner Circle?" his tone disbelieving.

"I have a growing list of those bastards. All we have to do is track down their descendants," Matt confirmed. "This is why Edwards' sudden activity has me on edge. He knows I'm up to something, and considering that the CIA doesn't think that the Circle is a big enough threat, he'll want to steal the crown and come out hero."

He pursed his lips. "And you think Cara is using this Schmitz mission as an excuse to pin me down and help Max's crusade."

"I'm not denying the legitimacy of her mission," Matt continued, eyes flickering to the doorway—the Cameron sisters were unusually silent. "It's her _second_ set of motives that I'm worried about."

Joe's phone rang in a shrill tone, slicing through their solemn mood, just as Rachel stepped into the kitchen behind them. Her gaze slid to the name flashing on his screen and she snorted.

"Speak of the devil," she muttered under her breath. Her husband shot her a reprimanding glance and she rolled her eyes. "Oh, excuse me. _She_ -devil."

"Put it on speaker," Abby interjected. At Joe's exasperated eye-roll, she held up her hands defensively. "What? You boys _really_ need to learn how to whisper."

Joe answered the call and set the cellphone on the counter. "Solomon. What—"

"Am I on speaker?"

He mouthed an ' _I told you so'_ to Abby. "Yes, but I'm home and the rooms are secure." He expected her to argue further, but her tone was firm and professional.

"I've had a few _developments_ on this case. And a very slight problem by the name of Catherine Goode."

Matt came to attention immediately, and tilted his head to urge the man to ask further.

"What kind of problem are we talking about? Tail, hostage, murder...?" he trailed. "Is she in collusion with Schmitz?"

"To an extent, yes, but there's more." A short, humorless laugh. "Try eight year-old child, Solomon. I need you in Iceland, ASAP."

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, and glanced up and the dumbfounded faces around him. "I'll be there tomorrow morning."

"Oh, and Joe?" When he made a small noise to indicate that he was still listening, she continued. "Get ready to pay your alma mater a visit afterwards."

The line disconnected and his gaze slid to Matt, who expressed the exact sentiment Joe was thinking.

" _Shit_."

* * *

Joe was not surprised in the slightest when an air hostess slipped an envelope under his bowl of soup. Her pale skin blanched a few shades further, and her pink lips offered a hesitant smile. She adjusted her hat and straightened herself, ducking out of the first-class booth aboard the airplane.

"If you need anything else, sir, please let me know," she nodded, smoothing the ruffled on her blouse. "Once we land in an hour, a secure cab will take you to your hotel."

Joe nodded, attention trained on the television screen in front of him. His green eyes were glazed, though he was hyper-aware of his surroundings.

The unnaturally thin woman leaned a bit further, her hand clenching the sliding door tightly. "The vehicle we have arranged for you has been used by the Duchess herself. We assure maximum privacy and a safe drive." She lurked at the edge of his seat, waiting for a response.

He met her petrified gaze with a small smile, reassuring her. He idly wondered how much she had been paid. "Thank you."

Exactly ninety four minutes and a fake passport later, he slid into the back of a large SUV, windows tinted nearly black. Immediately, he was handed a gun and a disposable cellphone.

"How was your flight?"

"Dull. The hostess, however, provided better amusement than those built-in televisions."

Cara snorted, shaking her head. "Was she pretty?"

"Whiter than a sheet of paper." He reached down to the backpack he had dropped to the floor of the vehicle, and pulled out a napkin with several numbers scribbled onto it. "Transferring the funds, I assume?"

She plucked the note out of his hands with her index finger and thumb, and tucked it into her pocket. "Dead drop. Anything with a trail is risky, and our favorite redhead has been getting creative with her son."

He shook his head grimly. He wasn't surprised that Catherine would use her own prodigy—barely elementary-school age—to con her way to the top of the Circle. His eyes flickered to the driver apprehensively.

"Don't worry about Bobby," she said offhandedly. The man met Joe's gaze through the rearview mirror with amused, pale blue eyes. "He's practically family, and he wouldn't dare say a word."

The driver—Bobby—laughed gruffly. "You have my ass hanging on the line, that's why," he chuckled.

Joe peered at the back of his head, as realization dawned on him. "What does Abby think of you squatting on her primary target?"

She smiled, watching the expansive, rolling hills outside her window. "Abby is on a need-know basis. Or, at least, that's what she pretends to be when she debriefs me."

Joe chuckled. "That sounds just like her."

"You know what else sounds like Agent Cameron? Putting a bullet in my ass!"

Cara snickered at the bewildered expression of her companion. "That's a story for another time. Until we get to the safehouse, I want you to take a look at these prints." She slid a folder tucked in a pocket behind the driver's seat and produced several grainy images. "Taken outside one of the only banks in Bolungarvík. Simple fishing village by the coastline, low populations and chilly temperatures. Twenty minutes away from the airport."

He squinted at the black and white image of a small figure—no more than a few feet tall—filling a backpack with wads of cash. When he flipped to the next image, he saw Catherine sitting at a desk with a phone pressed to her ear, her eyes staring directly into the camera.

"She wants us to find her," he muttered. "But what does a criminal alumni of Gallagher have to do with your target?" He awaited her response with bated breath, almost anticipating a mention of the Circle.

"Edwards has a reason to believe that she's wiring the money to David. It's been a hard process to track exactly where that cash flow is headed." She clucked her tongue. "That man is _paranoid_ , and has hundreds of rerouted transactions."

Bobby inserted himself into the conversation. "He's so paranoid that he has the most _inconspicuous_ food van tailing us for the past fifteen minutes." He considered the time on the dashboard. "I can loop around and put him off, but he'll have a good idea of where you're staying. We're only five minutes away from your checkpoint."

Joe gauged the distance of the van and checked for other vehicles on the road. Empty, and by the looks of it, they were in the outskirts of Bolungarvík, a distance away from civilization. His lips set in a firm line and he told the con artist at the wheel to slow the SUV.

"How far is the hike to the safe-house from here?"

Cara pursed her lips, already following his train of thought and reaching for the weapon tucked into her boots. "Only half an hour or so." She redirected her attention to Bobby. "Get the car to a steady speed of five, and get the hell out of here once we roll out."

"Yes, ma'am," he said mockingly. "Please don't put any bullet holes in this. It's a rental."

Joe chuckled, ushering the woman out before him. "Bullets will alert the locals, so you're in luck."

He ducked and tumbled out of the moving vehicle and onto the softer, frozen grass besides the two-lane highway. He heard a loud screech as the van halted besides them, and he heard Cara's warning pierce the air before he could see anything.

"Three to one. You're going to need that gun, Solomon!"

His weapon was loaded and poised to shoot within seconds. Their opponents had the advantage of the vehicle as a cover, and he retreated into the foilage for a shield. Cara was pressed against a tree a few feet away and she groaned in frustration.

"Two behind the engine. One is still in the car at the wheel, and I have no idea where the other three are."

He peeked around a tree trunk, jerking back when a singular gunshot broke the otherwise serene landscape. "Some idiot is hiding under the car. One is setting up a rifle on top of the van, and the other is not to far behind him. You take right, and I'll pick the rest off."

She nodded in assent. "Sure thing, Sergeant."

He fired a round, effectively pinning the man under the van with a head wound, and snorted. "Sergeant?"

"Abby must be rubbing off on me," she chuckled. "Besides, you sound like a drill officer rather than a field agent."

He grimaced, watching as the member with a rifle toppled off the top of the van, his companion hitting the ground as well. "You have no idea," he mumbled under his breath.

Their competition had been evened to two perpetrators, and as expected, in an act of complete and utter self-preservation, the Circle member at the wheel peeled off. His companion stumbled backwards in the smog the vehicle released and gathered his bearings instantly. Though he was yards away, Joe could see the malice and bloodlust in his eyes as he stripped his deceased companions of their weapons and charged forward.

"For the love of God," she hissed, hitting her empty weapon against an open palm. He heard her mutter a string of curses, and they exchanged a glance. "Flight or fight?"

He held out his gun, took her knife and slung his backpack over his shoulder. " _You're_ picking flight." He expected her to argue, yet she tilted her head in agreement. "Lure him away. I'll come up behind and take care of the fighting."

Joe had defeated men with far more than a knife, so when he positioned himself to shirk from his attacks, he was surprised to see the grinning man striding towards him leisurely. Wary, he stepped backwards, and kept his feet planted firmly in the moist ground, peppered with melting frost.

"Good to see you again, Solomon," the man said, opening his arms in welcome.

Dread filled the pit of his stomach. He remembered the man _too_ well; they had been comrades once, standing arm in arm as they upheld the Circle's horrific purpose.

"You're a stranger to me, Tom. Leave, before I have to do something we'll both regret." The hand that loosely held his weapon was now in a tight-knuckled grip. His eyes scanned the foliage, and he prayed that Agent Pierce was out of earshot.

Tom chuckled. "Funny how you throw me under the rug and treat me like garbage. You were just as bad as me once," he sneered. "The murder, kidnappings, torture, blackmail, _bloodshed_ —remember that little girl, Joe? She was the age of Morgan's daughter, wasn't she?"

"Stop," he said, voice rough. Images of a bloodied and battered child flickered past his eyes, a memory that he had suppressed. There were hundreds of moments that he awoke to regret each day, and the flashbacks associated with looking into the innocent eyes of the Morgan's newborn daughter were one of the reasons he had vowed to stay away ever since her birth.

The man clucked his tongue. "We're going to be at the top of the world one day, Joseph, and you're going to be the first one I kill when you come running back."

Joe snorted, shaking his head. "I really doubt that, Tom," he said slowly, dropping his bag and launching forward at the same time the man pulled his gun.

Realizing they were much too close to use his weapon, Tom gripped the butt of his gun and brought it down against Joe's head—hard. The man hissed in pain and urged the sudden blurriness away and switched away from the Circle's dirty methods of combat to the brutal parries of Krav Maga. He gritted his teeth and used an agent's biggest weapon: circumstance.

Taking advantage of the uneven ground, he targeted the back of his opponent's knees and brought them both to the forest bed. He grunted, narrowly avoiding Tom's blow to his ribs. His green eyes brightened in alarm when he caught sight of the loaded gun—discarded and tossed to the grass during their struggle—back in the combatant's left hand, ready to shoot.

Joe's knife was in the man's chest before he could even register the fact that he had been tackled to the ground.

"You're an asshole, Solomon," Tom wheezed, gasping for breath. His fingers grazed his chest, and he stared at the warm blood that coated them. "Just watch, you're going to betray your new friends at the CIA, too. It's what you do best—it's in your nature—"

Joe's eyes were hard and unfeeling when he pulled the trigger. "No, I won't," he whispered, as if to assure himself, and shook his head firmly.

He could only hope that it would remain the truth.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN** : Finally getting into the heat of things. As always, drop a review to receive an excerpt in your PM inbox.

 **CHAPTER FIVE**

If Cara had doubted anything before, her suspicions had been cleared yesterday.

She glanced over the screen of her laptop at the man sitting across from her at the small kitchen table. He was sipping his coffee, leisurely scanning the local newspaper for any further reports regarding the mysterious sum of money that vanished from the bank. He had taken the liberty of deleting the footage that showed the small boy to protect the child. To any outsider, Joe Solomon was the epitome of a perfect and sacrificial man, keeping his country and innocent people safe. But she didn't have the benefit of being an outsider, and every assertion Maxwell Edwards made to her was utterly true.

Contractual assassins were seen as a taint to an agency's name. Though she had been with the CIA much longer than she had started taking kill orders, her coworkers disregarded the fact and focused on her constant agency-hopping to fulfill her missions. Contrary to popular belief, she _did_ have morals, and the initial prospect of surveilling one of the CIA's renouned legends was unappealing.

However, a source from the Circle itself had confirmed her suspicions, and Joe Solomon had been there as well. She had camouflaged herself well, hidden by a thicket of bushes. Thankfully, she was familiarized with the area to be fast enough to return to the safe house before he could notice that she had lagged behind.

She'd called Maxwell instantly.

"You were right," were the first words that came out of her mouth when he had picked up the phone. "You have the guarantee that every last bit of me is invested in bringing this mission home as a success."

He had been pleased, inflated his arrogance. "I know. Don't disappoint me, Katherine. This country needs you and Agent Solomon must face consequences for his past."

Cara returned her attention to the window open on her laptop screen and frowned. She stared at the invitation that had been forwarded to her email, the product of a crafty hacking job, and clicked open the portal to confirm two reservations.

"I think I've found something," she said, and spun her computer around to show him. "Private auction, Saturday night. I... _borrowed_ a copy of the guest list and David is on there to purchase undisclosed pieces from the seller."

Joe raised his eyebrow, glancing at her skeptically. "Undisclosed pieces?" he repeated. "Who is selling them?"

She switched tabs to the CIA network and pulled up a profile. A wealthy man in his late-fifties appeared on the screen, and she watched as Joe skimmed his description.

"Benjamin Haber. Art enthusiast, sponsoring events in galleries around France. His part-time job is very different from his primary, yet brings in _much_ more cash."

He gave a low whistle under his breath, impressed. "Poison engineer and black-market supplier. I wouldn't expect that from him at first glance."

"Don't judge a book by its' cover," she said under her breath with a small glance out of the corner of her eye, but he made no indication of catching her hidden connotation. "The event is black-tie, so I hope you packed a suit."

"You already have tickets?" Joe asked, surprised. "I'm sure I'll find a suit somewhere. Alias?"

She pointed to a small box on the kitchen counter. The package had been dropped off at their doorstep early in the morning. "Edwards already took care of those. We'll have cover at the event from the CIA—but MI6 might be on the scene, so be extra careful. I don't have any of their names, but I'm sure we'll be able to spot them."

A pinched expression crossed Joe's face. "Max knows I'm here," he said sourly. "Fantastic."

She smirked at his deflation, and logged off her agency issued laptop. "I'm going to run into town and pick up my clothes from the post-office. Do you need me to get anything?"

"Maybe enough alcohol to keep me inebriated through Saturday," he chuckled. "I'll check the perimeter and fix any traps that were set off by animals."

She nodded in assent and grabbed her coat, tucking keys into her pocket and ducking out the door. She trekked across the small clearing the tiny house sat on, customary for the little Icelandic town. She could smell the sea in the air, and pulled her jacket tighter around herself. She stepped carefully though the landmine of security triggers on the land, until she reached the car.

The town was only a short distance away and she had to be careful—everyone was familiar with one another, a severe disadvantage when trying to maintain a cover. She drove past the post office with a cursory glance and stopped outside a local inn that overlooked the ports. Fishermen had already departed earlier that morning, and the shoreline was quiet, save for the occasional townspeople maintaining ships or strolling along the boardwalk.

Key in hand, she ducked into the homey inn, decorated with cultural relics and antique ship equipment. The faded wooden floors creaked loudly under her feet as she climbed the stairs to the second—and highest—floor. On her way, she flashed a maid a small smile.

" _Góðan daginn_ ," the stout woman greeted.

Her mind immediately converted to the country's native tongue. " _Halló, ungfrú_."

She waited until the maid had disappeared from the second floor clearing before she slid into one of the five rooms in the hall. Immediately, someone began helping her out of her coat.

" _Það tók þig nógu lengi, umboðsmaður_." _It took you long enough, Agent._ "You're an hour late. I thought we agreed to eight, yes?"

Cara rolled her eyes at his patronizing tone. "I was busy, _Maxwell_ ," she said, using his full name mockingly. "I thought periodic phone calls would be enough. What couldn't wait?"

He grasped her hand, turned it over and pressed a small flashdrive into her palm. "That's your second excuse, in case Solomon wonders why you've been gone for so long. The dress is at the post office, as promised."

She raised an eyebrow, and slipped the hardware into the back pocket of her jeans. She glanced at the clock, confused. "I've barely been here for five minutes. Why would I need this?"

In an instant, he had her pinned against the wall. "That's a good question. Why would you?" he asking, feigning innocence.

She huffed, and gripped the lapels of his suit. "He had me on speaker when I called him back in Virginia," she said, her eyes darting to his mouth, hovering only inches away.

"I told you, that flashdrive is your excuse." A button on her blouse popped free. "You were surveilling the area, and I told you that I had footage of Catherine stopping here with her son." Warm lips pressed against her neck in an open-mouthed kiss. "You were checking to find aliases and cross-examining the list of customers with the local population."

"So I _wasn't_ sleeping with my boss?" she inquired, quirking an eyebrow as a grin played at her features.

His stiff demeanor broke and he flashed a smirk. "For all intents and purposes, _no_."

Cara's hands slid around his neck and she pulled him the rest of the way.

* * *

Joe folded the cuffs of his crisp buttondown shirt and inserted cufflinks. The plain piece of adornment doubled as a microphone and a camera, recording every second of missions for review. He glanced at the watch around his wrist, pursed his lips and tapped his foot impatiently. They only had an hour to scope the venue and arrive with the rest of the guests, and his partner was nowhere to be seen.

He had dialed her number when he heard the front door open. There was a clicking sound against the wooden floors, and he raised his eyebrows when she slid into the kitchen, completely dressed for the event.

She wore a burgundy evening gown, floral lace decorating the bodice of the fabric. The dress was full-length, long enough to conceal weapons, and her hair was let down to shroud her communication unit. Her painted lips tilted upwards in a small smile.

"It isn't polite to stare, Solomon," she remarked, striding towards the cardboard box on the kitchen counter to collect fake identification cards.

He wasn't sure if it was appropriate to compliment her, and was slightly irritated by both her comment and tardiness. "You're late," he said flatly, closing all doors to the friendliness that had previously established.

He watched her smile disappear, eyes downcast and fixed on rearranging the items in her clutch. "I took my things straight down to the salon to get my makeup done." She fished out a flashdrive and tossed it towards him. "I was also held up, trying to download data onto there."

Joe drew his eyebrows together. "What's on here?"

"Data from the local inn. Edwards called in and told me there were reports of Catherine near there, so I thought we could cross-examine the identities on their visitor registry."

He nodded, watching her expression pucker slightly as she said those words. Something seemed rehearsed, and he had enough years of training to spot even the most skilled liars. Rather than pressing the issue, he grabbed his coat from the table and gestured towards the door.

"There's already someone here to pick us up. We have just enough time to be fashionably late," he said jokingly, buttoning his jacket.

"Wait," she said abruptly, grabbing his sleeve. "Why are you wearing that tie?"

He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, glancing down at the dark blue fabric. "What's wrong with my tie?"

Cara was twisting the ring on her finger in agitation, and frowned. "Don't—did you bring a bowtie?"

He stared at her apprehensively. "Is this supposed to be a James Bond joke?"

Her lips tilted upwards slightly and her eyes darted to her phone. "Don't wear the tie. It doesn't—it doesn't match."

Joe narrowed his eyes and gave her an intimidating frown. "What the hell is going on, Pierce?"

" _Trust me_ ," she pressed, "and put on the goddamn bowtie."

He scoffed. " _Trust you_? How am I supposed to trust you when you don't explain yourself? How do I know I'm not being marked as some target?"

He saw anger ignite in her grey eyes. "I should be the one asking if I should trust _you_ ," she retorted, and he saw her bite her tongue immediately. "It's the opposite. There's a separate mission on the field and the target is being painted with a blue tie. Are you satisfied?"

His eyes hardened and he angrily unknotted the fabric. "We're at forty-seven minutes now. Just get in the car and I'll change my goddamn tie."

The ride to their venue passed in terse silence. Joe was on edge; her stiff behavior told him that there was much more happening during the operation than a simple medium risk intervention between the auctioneer and his buyers. Instead, he switched to examining the building as the car looped around—though he watched her more than he watched the guests stream inside.

As the car entered the line of limousines rolling past the main gates, he began muttering observations under his breath.

"Five ways in, seven ways out, Entrances on all four polar sides. Upper level balcony jumps—completely survivable. The metal door a few steps down looks like it must be the basement kitchens." He bit his tongue and purposely left out a door tucked behind shrubs, in case he needed a more covert way to exit _without_ his partner.

She paused, glancing at him for a moment. "Windows are protected by grids and have a line of electric shock to keep people out—"

"—or in," Joe corrected, frowning. "He might have picked this venue to prevent his buyers from bailing on him. At least we have the assurance that Schmidt won't be able to escape easily. That puts us on level ground, once you remove the bodyguards and security detail. What's the goal here?"

The limousine slowed to a stop and she glanced out the window to see a butler approaching to help them out of the car. "Simple surveillance. Get as close to him as possible, acquaint yourself with the patterns around him, and figure out what he's here to purchase."

Joe pursed his lips, dissatisfied, though he knew it was important to be patient. However, her insistence over something as minute as a tie had him on edge, and he said nothing as the door opened and followed after her.

Her hand gripped the crook of his elbow, tapping out directions as she directed his attention to specific things around the hall. The grand doors were tall and heavy, not a viable exit in case they were closed after the event. He handed a burly man their invitations, and by the looks of the way he was examining them, he was _definitely_ intelligence. After a bated breath and a smile, they slid past the floor to ceiling marble foyer and walked into the exhibition.

"This is more chatter than that night at the Queen's palace," Cara muttered, wincing at the sudden burst of voices on their channel. Maxwell was most likely manning the technological aspects of their mission, and he was aware that his every word would be analyzed.

Joe hummed under his breath in agreement, his eyes darting to every corner of the hall. "They have an immediate triangular formation with a center point at the painting on display number four. We'll wait a few hours to see how they rotate out."

"There's our man, right in the center." Her nod diverted his gaze to Schmidt, stationed near the painting just as he'd predicted.

He paused for a brief moment. If he were to walk there right then, he'd risk Schmidt playing his cards in an offensive hand, acting as if they were old friends. If he was _lucky_ —which wasn't very often—David would understand the intent of his mission and back the hell off. Regardless, exposure at close proximity was something he could not risk, especially when the agent next to him was on a mission to reveal his early ties to the Circle, whether it be conscious or not. His gaze swept to the man David was speaking with, and Joe furrowed his eyebrows.

Abraham Baxter was on this mission as well. MI6 was on the scene, and knowing them, his wife was not far. Just as they locked eyes for a split second, a hand tapped him on the shoulder.

"Excuse me. Are you Mr. Johansson?"

Grace Baxter was dress in a neat pinstriped suit, a clipboard in her hands and a stunning smile stretched across her face. All traces of her accent were replaced with an Icelandic twang, her cover crafted as an art vender at the venue; her nametag read 'Anna Benedict'. Joe internally groaned—the British agency was running an interference, and they had the _perfect_ people stationed together to ensure that the CIA did not fulfill their mission until England was glorified first.

"Yes. Please call me Alexander." _Please get the hell out of my mission_.

Though she was a friend, there was nothing that would deter her from her operation details and loyalty to her agency. She beat a steady rhythm on her clipboard with her pen. "I was notified that you were looking to purchase a particular piece from Mr. Haber. Would you follow me so I could show you the work for private viewing before the auction?"

Joe gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to glare at her, keeping his expression neutral as he regarded her with cool eyes. "Absolutely," he said, and slid Cara's arm off of his. He watched a frown appear on Grace's face when she realized that the woman would not be accompanying them. With a curt nod, Cara disappeared; in his peripheral, he could see her tactfully inching toward the centerfield of the security detail surrounding David Schmidt.

"You know why I'm doing this," Grace said quietly, flipping through her clipboard as if she was shuffling through papers to show him.

He pretended to look interested in her paperwork, while in reality, he was fuming. "I suppose this is payback for Montreal?"

She flashed a smile at guests, though her grin was meant for him. "Something like that. Like you, I'm just fulfilling my duty to my country."

"Of course," Joe grumbled, and didn't try to suppress his eye-roll when they stopped in front of the ugliest piece of artwork he'd ever seen. The splashes of green and yellow across the canvas resembled vomit, and it was the opposite of aesthetically appealing. "You've got to be kidding me."

Grace smirked. "This is one of our most highly demanded works, Mr. Johansson." Quieter, she said, "Abe is having a barbecue for Bex's birthday. We'll make it up to you then, and you can bring your pretty friend with you."

"She's just a partner," he gritted—Rachel had been talking to her friends. "I might not be able to take you up on that offer." He shuffled to the side, and his senses were on high alert when he spotted a man with a blue tie—very similar in shade to the one he had been wearing before—speaking with Cara.

He could feel Grace's heated gaze watching the interaction with intensity and measuring its level of threat. Cara had turned away for a split second when a bodyguard brushed past her roughly, cycling through his rotation schedule, when he saw the man remove a small vial that resembled a cologne sample. In one smooth motion, its contents were emptied into a glass of champagne, offered to Cara when she turned her attention back towards him with a smile.

She wouldn't be stupid, Joe thought. There was no way that she would accept food items from unknown personnel. If she was accepting it so readily, it meant that she knew him, and subsequently placed her trust in the wrong man with a blue tie. Joe watched their operation unravel when she sipped at the crystal ware.

Grace was hissing into her comms unit urgently. "We have an American agent under attack by an anonymous variable. _I repeat_ , an American agent under atta—"

She locked eyes with him the minute he muttered her name into his own communication unit, the smile dying from her eyes at his expression. Joe watched as the glass wobbled in her hands, the liquid fulfilling its purpose instantly, as the attacker swept out of the ballroom and disappeared amongst the crowd of guests.

"I'll go after him—" Abe's voice cut through the chatter as he radioed in.

Joe surged forward as briskly as he could without drawing too much attention. The second Cara hit the floor, the entire room burst into a panic. Her skin was pale and ashy, losing color at a rapid rate, while her eyes were glazed. Blood dripped from her nose and the shattered glass under her pierced the skin of her hands. He rapidly felt for a pulse, letting MI6 and other agents of the CIA commandeer the comms units as a crowd gathered around them.

"Someone call an ambulance—"

"Oh, God, she's bleeding!"

"Tell Mr. Haber that one of his guests—"

The room plunged into darkness.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN** : Same rules apply: if you login, review, and have PMs open, expect an excerpt!

 **AN #2** : I had a bit of a change in plans; rather than making things confusing, I'm going to move the chapters to the second part of this fic. This way, the first part will go by faster and I'll be able to add what Joe has been up to in the future as well.

 **AN #3** : And yes, this is the second update in two days; I thought it was best to get this out because of the changes I'm making!

 **CHAPTER SIX**

Bundled in blankets to protect herself from the harsh Icelandic winds outside, Cara watched Joe aimlessly flip through news channels. She had awoken only a few hours ago to him near her bedside at their cottage. Other than a curt inquiry about how she was feeling and a glass of water, he had been stolid as he kept his eyes trained on the small television screen. However, when the news anchor read breaking news in Icelandic, he leaned forward and turned on English captions to decipher her extremely rushed speech.

" _Last night, at an extremely exclusive event hosted for the world's elite collectors, an art auction was the target of theft by the notorious group of thieves responsible for heists around the globe. Witnesses recall the power being cut. When the light was returned, three canvases, a Fabergé egg, and a diamond necklace were found missing. Police and Interpol are engaged in a mission to find the culprit, made difficult by stolen security footage. There were no injuries, save for the wife of an ambassador who fainted from shock..._ "

Joe's eyes hardened and he stared at the screen. His gaze whirled on the woman in bed, and he pointed angrily at the images flashing by with the remote in his hand. "Some missions go wrong, I understand that. But _this_ **—** How the hell were we in the crosshairs of a planned heist?"

She rubbed her temples, his loud boom rattling her brain. "I don't know," she muttered, voice barely audible. "I was told that there would be a CIA agent that would approach me with information. The only marker I would have was that goddamn blue tie, but _someone knew_ , and intercepted."

He sat back in his chair, flabbergasted, breaths coming in angrily spurts. "Why the hell did you take that drink?" he demanded.

"I thought he was an agent!" she burst. "He was clearly disguised and it had the CIA's fingerprints all over it."

Joe scowled. Everything she said matched the theories of the agency and other operatives on site. Even Maxwell testified that his intention had been to disclose a list of Haber's products through an agent with a distinct marker. While he didn't trust Edwards in the slightest, he was beginning to lose reason behind his constant defense against Cara.

She broke the silence that followed his contemplation. "Are you done yelling at me now? I want to get back on this job."

He felt slightly guilty and sighed. "I'm sorry," he grumbled under his breath. "You're not getting on the mission at all **—** the medic that came by said you need at least two days, especially since that poison was mixed into alcohol. I'm going to follow up on a lead."

Cara barely argued against his assertion and sank further into her sheets. "What lead?" she asked.

He debated telling her, and chastised himself for his paranoia. After Maxwell and the CIA's recognition, they were officially associates on the mission. There were some things that were foolish to hide.

"Catherine's son was seen a block away from the scene. Granted, it was at an overpriced daycare, but wherever that boy is, Catherine is usually around. We have permission to conduct an independent operation if there is reasonable suspicion that she is linked with Schmidt and was involved in the burglary."

She picked up the glass of water off of the nightstand and traced the rim as she thought. "You want to go to Blackthorne to gather intel, don't you?" she deduced, raising an eyebrow.

Joe nodded and grimaced slightly. His original intention had been to disappear without a word about his intentions, but recent events had him rethinking his extreme precautions. "Yes, but I want to do this one alone."

"I understand," Cara nodded slowly. He knew she really didn't, but it was fine by him if she believed that his reluctance was due to trauma from the intense military-style instruction at the institution. He hadn't gone back for _years_ since his graduation for a reason, and he wasn't eager to return to his assassin roots... though the woman in front of him was exactly that.

As if reading his thoughts, she cleared her throat. "You know I kill the bad guys, right?" she said hesitantly. "I went to Gallagher, not Blackthorne. And while I know you spent your entire childhood there, it doesn't make you one of those killers."

He turned his head, ignoring the slightly wounded frown that appeared on her face at his rejection. "I know," he said, though he didn't specify which statement he was replying to. "Maxwell has booked you a return flight to a base in England where he'll debrief you."

"You're going straight to the States?" she inquired, surprised.

Joe nodded. "It's about time I returned to my alma mater for a visit."

* * *

"Empty your pockets there. Walk through the sensors when you're done."

Joe complied with the soldier's directions and did as directed. He was given a glower at the loaded gun he placed into the tray, and merely shrugged his shoulders when he stepped through the detectors without a problem. He raised his hands in the air, just as he had done almost daily when boys were caught smuggling in knives from the kitchens. He returned only his phone and keys to his pockets, and was about to enter the facility of the school when the soldier's thundering voice stopped him.

"Wait." To his surprise, the man handed him back his gun with a firm pat on his back. "I was a year below you, Solomon. The kids here have gotten rowdier, and you might need that."

He tucked the weapon into his trousers and nodded. When he strolled into the hall, past the security booth, he closed his eyes and allowed the memories to flood him. Blackthorne was nowhere near as glamorous as Gallagher—its appearance was as harsh and unforgiving as the tall chain link fences implied. It had the reputation of a school for misbehaving and criminal boys for a reason; it trained them like they were animals rather than humans, carving them into versions of themselves vastly different from what they had been when they arrived.

The wooden floors of the main hall were bare, walls decorated with army recruitment posters and lists of rules. There were warning signs, pictures of military comanders, and idealized portraits of men that were actually convicts. He shoved his hands into the pocket of his coat, his dress shoes clicking against the scuffed floors. His eyes slid to the large double doors of the Grand Hall. It was not decorated like a ballroom; rather, the white tiled foors and grey walls hosted tables, benches, and a stage encased in plexi-glass to prevent teachers from their students.

The school wasn't meant to fix rowdy boys, turn them into model citizens. It was meant to do the polar opposite of what it advertised. Blackthorne Academy _made_ criminals.

Many of the true horrors of the school took place in the sublevels, which were actually bunkers of weapons and stadiums for staged drills. The bedrooms upstairs were filled with stiff cotts that would be flipped over if the corners were not neatly tucked. He envisioned the metal doors that would lock at precisely midnight during weekdays, and one in the morning during weekends. Several speakers were installed into walls, the blaring bells serving as a wake-up call at four-thirty.

Joe had seen the boys outside running their drills, their teachers screaming only inches from their faces, degrading the impressionable teenagers with their insults and curses. Thin from rationed meals, but muscular from relentless training. He was sure that each of them had callouses on their palms and scars on their bodies from the guns and knives. Dull eyes and dark circles, plagued by sleep deprivation and nightmares.

He passed the door to the "Treatment Room". In reality, it was a staircase that led down to a psychologist's office, whose job it was to instill heartlessness and a lack of mercy. They were assassins, and guilt would not be acceptable in their field.

Walking through the institution, Joe wondered how he had survived. The first few mornings had been absolute hell and torture, and he remembered showering away tears and sweat, and trembling afterwards on the uncomfortable bed. His limbs would be shaking violently with exhaustion. But eventually, his mind numbed and he could no longer register pain, and he graduated with the same roboticness that his predecessors had. They had been taught one lesson about life: kill, or be killed.

Joe entered the hall that led to both the headmaster's office and the teacher's quarters. He read familiar names, people that he had grown up with, men that returned as professors to contribute to the cycle of horrors. _Markus Greyback, Derek Steinfeld, Dr. Steve..._

"Oh, _Joseph_ ," a feminine voice hummed behind him. The eery way her voice bounced on the stone walls chilled him to the bone, and he turned to find a redheaded woman wiggling her fingers at him in greeting.

He swallowed hard. He was not scared of Catherine, but it was her ability to play mind games that unsettled him. "Hello, Cathy. I've been looking for you, these past few weeks."

She gracefully stepped forward. The dainty way she held herself made her seem mad, as she swayed in her flowing white skirt and periwinkle blouse. "I know. You looked positively _delicious_ at the auction house. That lady on your arm had my spot." She wrinkled her nose and gauged his reaction.

Joe bristled, but stopped short when he spotted the boy peeking out from behind his mother. His eyes widened—he looked nothing like his mother, his dark eyes and hair a stark contrast from her emerald green irises and flaming red locks. He had a hauntingly blank look in his eyes, thin frame enveloped by ratty clothing that was too big.

"Is he..." Joe licked his chapped lips, thinking back to the mistakes he made exactly nine years ago. His stomach was in knots and he felt sick.

Catherine rocked back on her heels and shrugged. "I don't know. What do you think, darling?" She slinked forward, dangerously close, scratching his cheek with a fingernail. "Just as handsome as I remembered."

He stared into her wild eyes and grabbed her wrist. "Your son is so much older than the last time I saw you," he said firmly, blocking out the doubts her open-ended answer left. "Get yourself together, Goode."

She snorted, switching to an authorative and cold tone when she spoke to her son. "Come here, Zachary."

The boy shuffled forward meekly, craning his head to look at Joe and attempt to straighten his shoulders into a more confident posture. "Yes, Mom," he mumbled.

"Speak clearly. What did I say about calling me that?"

"Catherine—" Joe tried to intervene, horrified with her behavior.

Her son bit his lip and spoke louder. "Yes, Mother," he said, his voice as empty as he looked.

Catherine regarded him for a few more terse moments and grinned at Joe. "I'm going to be in Switzerland for a few days. Have fun, will you? I don't have his things, so you might need to splurge a bit."

He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"You tell anyone where I am or that you have my son, you are as good as dead, Joseph," she said, the smile on her face maniacal. She stepped backwards, nearly sprinting out of a side door and disappearing into a secret passage in the walls before he could catch her.

Joe turned around and ran his fingers through his hair, watching the child glare at the place his mother had been standing with hatred not meant for an eight year-old. He squatted down to his level carefully, noting the way the boy shrank away, and spoke to him softly. Undoubtedly, Catherine had instilled some form of training in the boy and his weakness could have been a façade.

"What's your name, bud?" he asked.

A little harrumph. "You heard my mother," he said snappily. "My name is Zachary Goode."

Joe was taken aback by his curtness. "I'm sorry—I must not have been paying attention. Can I call you Zach?" The boy nodded, and Joe continued, not sure how to talk to someone so young. "Since your mom is taking some time to go on a trip, you're going to have to come with me. But first I want to check something."

Zach scrunched his nose. "Okay. Mommy says I'm nothin' but trouble, so you might not want me, Mister."

His chest constricted as he quickly scanned the boy for bugs, and swiped the handheld detector installed in his phone. Other than a button on his shirt, there was nothing—Catherine didn't seem to concerned about her son's whereabouts.

"You won't be any trouble. Where do you usually go when your mom has work?"

The boy shrugged. "Usually I just stay home. Mother taught me how to make mac 'n cheese and alphabet soup."

Joe pursed his lips. It sounded like something Catherine would do, leaving her child alone to starve. He stared at the boy, masking the pity he felt for him, and instead grasped his shoulder. He steered him towards one of the many passages that led out of the school so that he could escape, undetected. While the security guard had been lenient by allowing him his gun, he figured that his kindness was limited when it came to leaving with an extra person that did not belong in the institution.

His mission at Blackthorne hadn't been entirely fruitless—he had the valuable opportunity to save the boy from his own mother.

Each of the times he had been left alone with a child, things had gone extremely wrong. The years he spent with the Circle left him nightmares that lasted for over a decade. Yet when he looked down at Zachary Goode, son of one of the biggest names of the Inner Circle, he saw himself.

Young, lost, and hopeless. Zach was nearly half his age when he had joined, but nevertheless, it was an opportunity to give him a chance at a life that Catherine would never be able to give him.

His stomach coiled in anxiety as he led him to his car, the boy shuffling along without a protest and the stiff movement of a machine.

"Let's get you something to eat, Zach," he suggested, eyeing his thin frame. "Then... then we'll go home."

* * *

Max stood at the foot of the commercial plane, watched the stream of passengers disembark and climb into the bus. He watched a familiar woman climb down the steps unsteadily, one hand gripping the railing while the other held a small carry on. Her black hair flew in the wind and he offered to take her belongings when she reached the ground. She handed them over gratefully, and wrung her fingers.

"How was your flight?" he inquired, not oblivious to her anxious state. He reached towards her to peck her cheek, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion when she leaned away.

Her eyes darted to the black Lexus parked a few yards away from a luggage carrier. "Nauseating. Whatever they dropped into my drink still isn't out of my system." She slid into the backseat when their driver opened the door, and Max took a seat besides her. He was watching her very carefully, and she gnawed on her lip.

"I don't know what happened back there. I'll make sure you're never at risk like that again," he promised, voice firm. "The CIA wants to debrief you independently of the task force created by Interpol, and I've convinced them to put it off for a few days."

She nodded and remained silent, her eyes trained on the passing buildings of Heathrow. "He's starting to trust me as a mission associate," she said, voice low.

Maxwell hummed under his breath, pleased. "Good. You'll know when to move onto our honeypot phase." At the sour expression that crossed her face, he placed a hand over her knee. "Remember, stay in your comfort zone and I'll take care of the rest if things get out of hand."

She exhaled. He'd misinterpreted her displeasure, reading into what he wanted to hear, rather than the truth. "I _hate_ honeypot missions. I'm a goddamn assassin, Max, not a whore."

"You _aren't_ a whore. This is for a purpose." He grabbed her chin, his eyes staring into hers, unwavering. "Once I have him, everything will go back to normal."

Cara fought back a scowl. There it was again: the cockiness, the arrogance, and the use of _'I'_ rather than _'we'_. He was her boss, not her equal; it was as if they _hadn't_ been together for the six months that she'd been assigned on the mission. The hours they spent mapping and plotting the perfect entrapment had evolved into something much more dangerous in their field. She knew his sudden affection with her at the onset of their planning was suspiciously characteristic of just another man trying to use her, but she kept her mouth shut and her paranoia trained on her operation.

Instead, she kept her anger bottled inside, and offered a small quirk of her lips in response. "Normal is equivalent to kill missions every other week and no vacation time," she said, testing him for his reply.

He caught her implications and chuckled. "You might want to change your definition of normal, then. I was thinking of a nice one-bedroom apartment near Hampstead. Plenty of city-life, and maybe even a permanent transfer to Interpol, if that's what you want."

Cara closed her eyes and let him press a chaste kiss to her lips. "Fine," she conceded, eyeing his victorious grin warily. "I'll do it for Hampstead."


	7. Chapter 7

**AN** : For those that PMed me, yes—Cara's full name is Katherine, similar to Catherine Goode. I didn't realize they had the same name until later, so that's why she has a nickname, haha. I'm going to switch up my normal, limited omniscient tone and give some insight to other characters, as well. Reviews get previews, so remember to drop one. There's a big shift coming in this chapter, so expect to see the plot moving in a new direction after this.

 **CHAPTER SEVEN**

"What the actual _fuck_ , Solomon!"

Joe groaned. He had heard her come into his house and hadn't made the move to greet her. His arm remained slung over his eyes, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

"Are you listening to me? Get _up_ , you son of a—"

He grabbed her flailing arm, and sat up higher in bed. Her voice grated against his ears and he grimaced as he pushed off his sheets, bare-chested and _cold_. "You shouldn't be cursing when there's a child present, Abigail," he said, pulling a blanket back to cover his torso.

Abby yanked herself away. "You brought Catherine Goode's son back into your house. I think this is warranted, don't you think?" she gritted.

He rubbed a hand over his face tiredly, and froze when he heard the front door open and close again, rapid footsteps thudding against the floor. "You called Matt," he said flatly, and sent a glower of accusation.

She narrowed her eyes into slits. "You should be happy I told him instead of Rachel," she harrumphed, turning her attention to the new occupant in the room. "Hello, darling brother-in-law. Have you seen what your best friend has done now?"

Matt shook his head, and grabbed a sweatshirt off the back of a chair to toss at Joe. "Get dressed. I'm going to escort Abby out, and we're going to have a little chat over a cup of coffee."

"Hey—" she interjected, offended. At the pointed look she recieved, she slumped in defeat and sighed dramatically. " _Fine_. You owe me big time, asshat."

As Joe wrestled the college football sweatshirt over his head, he heard the front door slam shut. "You all are going to wake up the kid," he muttered, dragging his feet on the floor as he walked towards the kitchen.

Matt was right on his heels. "He's out cold. Abby called me right at the foot of his bed in the guestroom and she said that he didn't move an inch."

"Figures. That boy looks like a twig. I don't know if she's ever fed him a proper meal or let him sleep more than the four hours that Blackthorne gives its students." Under his breath, he said, "I wonder who his father is."

The man raised an eyebrow. "He looks nothing like you, Solomon, so calm the hell down. Catherine wasn't one to stick around with a single partner, and I doubt even _she_ knows." As an afterthought, he added with a peculiar tone, "He looks like he's only a few months older than Cammie."

Joe scowled, catching his hidden meaning beneath those slightly bitter words. "There isn't a kid in the world that's more important to me than yours. Don't put me through this. You know _exactly_ why I brought Zach with me—the Circle's all he knows and the least I can do for the kid is make sure he doesn't turn out like his mother."

Matt put his hands up in surrender, and attempted to ease his way out of the boiling argument. "That's not what I meant. I was just commenting on how young he is," he said innocently. At the second, fierce glare he received, he sighed. "Not a word to Rachel. This time, I'll make sure my sister-in-law keeps her enormous vocal cords on mute, too."

The shrill siren of Joe's phone cut through their conversation, and he glanced at the screen with a frown. "Good riddance. At least Abby isn't here to chaperone my calls," he grumbled, clicking on the call.

Cara's voice carried over the line in an urgent tone. "You will not believe who visited me today," she said, moving the curtain an inch to glance outside at the retreating redhead. "Catherine Goode somehow knew that the story about the ambassador's wife was a coverup."

Joe exhaled, and ignored Matt's gestures for him to put the phone on speaker. "Where are you? How did she know where to find you?"

There was a short, breathy laugh. "London," she said, and paused momentarily. "At Max Edward's apartment."

His eyebrows shot upwards and he set down his glass of water, and rubbed the back of his head. "Oh," he said, his mouth unusually dry as he tried to formulate a response. "You might want to tell Maxwell to update his security perimeter. What did she say to you?"

Cara spoke with a low tone. "She wanted me to tell you to drop off her son at the Virginia Aquarium near the starfish exhibit, when she returns from Switzerland tomorrow night. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

"About that..." Joe trailed, chuckling dryly.

She groaned, closing the curtain and glancing back at Max, who had arrived immediately through a back door when she notified him of Catherine's arrival. "Solomon, please tell me you didn't—"

"How about you book a flight to Roseville and take a look yourself?"

Cara wound the cord of the phone around her finger and bit her lip. "Fine," she said. "Give me ten hours and I'll be there tonight."

With a short sound of affirmation, he hung up the phone.

"What are the chances that Cara Pierce is sleeping with her boss?" Joe said thoughfully, staring at the phone in his head.

Matt's eyes were as wide as saucers and his mouth hung open in surprise. "Well," he said, and cleared his throat noisily, "I wouldn't be surprised if Edwards was using it to manipulate her into this mission."

Joe considered the glass on the table and hurled it at the wall. There was a faint sound of sniffling coming from the guestroom down the hall. "My mission partner, the person that's supposed to have my back, is in a romantic... _something_ with the man that's been spending years to put me behind bars. Fucking fantastic, just what I needed."

His friend dropped his voice to nearly a whisper, upon the indication that the boy was awake. "I have to disagree with Rachel on this one, Joe. Max can be a convincing son of a bitch. She definitely knows what he does—about you being in the Circle—but I think he's the one that forced her into this."

Joe snorted, and ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. "I knew it this whole damn time, yet I didn't stay away. _She_ knew this whole time, too, and let me get invested and absorbed into this mission. What the hell am I doing?"

Matt pursed his lips, and glanced towards the rustling of bedsheets. "You're going to do what you've done this entire time: finish the mission, get debriefed, and have another success noted in your file. If you drop out if this or even distance yourself because of your own suspicions, then that raises enough red flags for Max to pin you down. Play this smart, Solomon, and make sure you come out the winner at the end."

"God, those things I did... it's been nearly six years since I withdrew myself completely from the Circle. You'd think I would be able to leave this behind."

The older man shook his head, a sad smile on his face. "Unfortunately, that isn't how our world works. People keep digging and digging into your past until they find a mistake they can capitalize on."

Joe gave a heavy sigh, his emerald eyes dull from exhaustion. "You should leave. There's no guarantee that she isn't lying about London."

"I think a meeting with Agent Pierce is long overdue. I want her to know I'm here—that Edwards is going to have a hell of a time trying to take down some of the world's best American operatives, " Matt countered. He pointed towards a laptop set on the coffee table. "In the meantime, I'll confront the intelligence portion of the Internet to get acquainted with our latest nuisance."

"Before you do that—" Joe interjected, smiling at the drowsy figure that lumbered into the kitchen, clad in a pair of Power Rangers' pajamas that he had picked up at Walmart last night. "Maybe you should channel your parenting skills towards breakfast for a third-grader."

* * *

From what she had read, Matthew Morgan had a multitude of talents on his profile that took eons to scroll down. However, his most prominent one was undoubtedly his ability to make her feel like a caged animal.

When Joe texted her the address to a small cabin located at the outskirts of Roseville, she knew that it was a private piece of him that she could never bring herself to disclose to Max. The area was secluded, comfortable, and practical—but most importantly, safe. Yet when she walked through the front door, through the foyer, and met the eyes of his handsome companion, she felt the absolute opposite of secure.

There was a fierce protectiveness about him, and his walls were built high and impenetrable. Despite Joe's experience and expertise, he had the advantage of living alone, and didn't have the air of accountability that Matthew did. His speech was cool and collected, but every syllable held one threat.

 _If you hurt my loved ones, you'll be next._

Something told her that her con against Joe wouldn't work with Matthew Morgan around. Regardless, Max Edwards' dislike for him seemed to be misplaced—her perception was that he was hellbent on bringing the Circle down. His past was clean, and he put his life on the line during every side mission. The disgust she had for Joe's past actions just weren't there when it came to Matthew, and she sensed that he was the anchor amongst his friends and family that kept everyone steady.

He stretched out a hand for her to shake. "Matthew Morgan. You must be Agent Pierce," he introduced.

"Call me Cara," she replied, and bristled when he tightened his handshake and looked her directly in the eye. When he made no move to offer an informal nickname, she shuffled awkwardly.

Joe cleared his throat, and winced when he heard a stream of coughs echo down the hall. "I'm going to go check up on him—his fever was raging this morning."

"Only one tablespoon of cough syrup, Joe. Not the whole damn bottle again," Matt called after him, flashing a crooked grin at the rude gesture he was sent. He returned his attention to his guest, offered her a seat and a bottle of beer.

She waved him off. "You can imagine why I'm wary of accepting drinks from strangers," she said lightly.

He chuckled good-naturedly, and sat opposite of her on a recliner. "I've heard a lot about you," he started. "Gallagher alumni, went straight to the CIA for five years during college. Kill missions thereafter, and they occasionally send you out to other ally agencies on contract. Stellar record, clean counseling sessions."

Her eyebrows shot upwards at the last statement. He had done his research extremely well, and delved deep into her private files. She didn't let his snooping faze her, and kept her composure. "I went through quite a bit of training to get where I am," she replied.

"I can imagine," Matt nodded, propping his forearms on his legs, and leaned forward. "But there was something interesting I found. You're cited to have—and this is verbatim—'a moral streak'. I always wondered how assassins could con their way close to their targets, and take them away from their families, loved ones... and yet still have a justification for it."

For some reason, his inquiries were worse than debriefings done with her superiors. She lifted her chin, trying to maintain her dignity in the face of his hidden insults. "I don't do anything that reflects poorly on my country. My mission is the same as yours: keep the bad guys out."

He hummed under his breath in agreement. "I've always wondered, though, if you ever took missions that weren't directly involved in the welfare of your nation, but rather, some old quarrels. Maxwell Edwards seems like an odd choice, doesn't it?"

Cara shot up from her seat immediately, steam nearly pouring from her ears in rage. Her skin was flushed and her eyes narrowed. However, Matt grabbed her arm and stood barely two inches away.

"I know what you're doing, _Agent Pierce_ ," he spat. "Your moral streak seems to be very faulty this time around, because you're falling into all the right traps without looking properly." Her skin was turning red as he tightened his vise-like hold. "I hear even the smallest amount of chatter about you stepping the wrong way..." he trailed. "You'll be a pretty useless assassin if you're dead."

Joe's call floated down to the living area and Matt released her. "His fever is down, but he's coughing his lungs out. I think I'll just hand him over to his mot—" He stopped short, regarded the enraged look on Cara's face and the satisfied expression on his friend's. "Is everything okay?"

"Rachel wants me home by eleven to take over while she goes out with Abby," Matt said smoothly, grabbing his windbreaker. "Have a good night." His eyes slid to the woman and remained for a split second too long, and he departed for the front door.

Joe regarded her with a concerned glance, and instantly understood what his friend had done in his absence. However, despite her troubled frown and flushed skin, he gestured at the back porch as if nothing had happened.

"Would you mind? I know it's a bit cold out, but he's a smart kid and it's likely that he'll eavesdrop."

She nodded slowly, but remained fixed in her spot. "Could I..." she gestured at the hall he'd disappeared down earlier. "Out of curiosity. I've only seen him in blurry photographs."

Joe pursed his lips and considered her offer for a brief moment. Though he had only had the boy for forty-eight hours after years of separation, he felt an intense protectiveness over him. He nodded, and waved a hand to lead her into the bedroom. He watched her carefully, watching her guarded expression slide down and conflicting emotions flicker past her face.

"He doesn't have her hair," she said quietly, standing at the foot of the bed. "It doesn't look like dye, either, so thank God for that."

He chuckled, sliding his hands into his pockets and watching from the threshold. "He has her features, but definitely not her coloring. Must be the father," he mused silently.

"Did you try any tests? To find out who it is?"

Joe shook his head. "He's an eight year-old boy. I don't think it would matter even if we _did_ know, so it'll be useless to spend days on a database, trying to match blood samples."

She hummed under her breath in agreement, watching his chest rise and fall with his breathing, his ruddy cheeks twitching as he snored softly. She could have never imagined that such innocence was a part of Catherine Goode, and that she was capable of sustaining a human being other than herself. She step backwards as lightly as she could on the floorboards, and tilted her head towards the door.

"Outside?" she suggested, and he nodded.

The air was moist from the short rainfall that occurred earlier that evening. When he flicked on the porch light, the surrounding foliage was a brilliant green, sparkling from droplets of water that rolled down leaves. Though it was nearly spring, it was chilly and a breeze swept through the forest. She squinted, catching sight of something shimmering only a few yards away in the dark.

"Is that a lake?" Cara inquired, impressed.

He made a sound of affirmation. "There's a dock only a short hike down. It's great for fishing in the summers." The silence that followed their polite conversation was filled with the buzz of insects, and he cleared his throat. "Not to come off as rude... but Edwards? _Really_?"

She cracked a grin, and met his amused and astounded green eyes. He was staring at her with a joking kindness that was the polar opposite of Matt's prior harshness. "It's not... a _thing_ ," she stressed, her words sounding lame to her own ears. "I'm not sure, but it's something. He's a very nice person, once you get to know him."

Joe snorted, shaking his head. "You and I both know that isn't true. But whatever it is you see in him, I wish you luck with that bastard."

Cara rolled her eyes at his dramatic cursing and pulled her thin jumper around herself tightly. His gaze fell on her shiver, and he excused himself briefly. She rocked back on her heels and surveyed the land surrounding the safe-house as best she could in the darkness. She had always hated the darkness, but the pitch blackness didn't seem as intimidating when there was the comfort of knowing it was likely equipped with some of the best security technology issued by the CIA.

She heard him before she saw him, and felt the thick fabric of a coat drop onto her shoulders. The scent of musk and cologne flooded her senses. When she turned around, he was standing next to her with his hands buried deep in his pockets again, making no acknowledgement of his actions other than a slight smirk.

"For the record," Cara said, grinning, "Edwards always told me off for not bringing a jacket before he gave me his."

Joe shook his head incredulously. "I should be getting bonus points for this. What an annoying, British prick."

She snickered. "Actually, his great-grandparents were American. The later generations ran off to England, for some reason."

"Really?" he said, feigning astonishment. "I thought he was related to Her Royal Highness."

They fell into a comfortable silence again, and Cara glanced at her clock, chastising herself under her breath. "Oh, God. I have to go—I'm supposed to be meeting someone at midnight."

Joe raised an eyebrow, and slid open the back door for her to return inside. "Do you have a place to stay for the night?"

She shook her head. "Abby wanted me to go bar-hopping with her through the morning. I'll probably end up holding her head over a toilet and missing out on all my sleep."

He laughed, and waved her off when she tried to return the black coat. "Return it to me when we're back in London. The next few days in Roseville are going to be chilly."

Cara slid her arms through the holes and buttoned the oversized piece of clothing to the top to amuse him. She was starting to appreciate its musky scent, and the mirth in the man's eyes.

"I hear there's another Cold War film coming out in a month, " he said cryptically, and she understood immediately, stepping out the front door.

"Four weeks, Solomon. Don't be tardy."

He grinned. "I wouldn't miss a game of blackjack for the world."


	8. Chapter 8

**AN** : This takes place in 2003, when the CIA is fairly developed (ten years before UWS). As established by the prior chaper, this current one takes place in the spring. And yes, I find it completely realistic that missions turn into multiple year excursions and that contact between Joe and Cara has been limited, while they take on other official missions. Remember, this one with Edwards is off the books. This is a short, but important, filler. We're going to start cheery in this chapter, but...

 **CHAPTER EIGHT**

Cara rolled her eyes at her friend's pleading look. She had been giving her the same pointed stare of intrigue the entire night. Abby had already spent her half hour vomitting her stomach clean on the bathroom floor, and now her full attention was on the assassin.

"I thought you were drunk," Cara said dryly, slightly bitter that she wasn't nearly as tipsy as she wanted to be.

Abby rolled her shoulders in a shrug. "What can I say? I can hold my liquor like a champ."

"You just puked all of your martinis into a toilet bowl."

"Shut up, smartass," she replied cheerily. "Now, I've kept quiet for a total of four hours, which is an all-time record—"

"Impressive, really."

Abby glared, kicked off her heels and plopped onto the couch next to the woman. "You're wearing a coat that is not your size, and frankly, it smells like liquid sex."

"For the love of God. _Abigail Cameron_ , leave me alone!" Cara said, choking in horror at her companion's words.

Pleased, Abby pressed on further. "Whose is it?" she said, drilling her for information.

"No one. I just borrowed it from a friend for a few days since I lost mine at the airport—"

 _"Whose is it?_ "

"Really, Abby, you're overthinking this—"

"Tell me, you goddamn witch! We've been friends for over a decade. I think I deserve this particularly sensitive piece of information, don't you think? Friends don't keep secrets from one another—"

"Joe Solomon."

Cara blurted the name, and sighed in defeat. She had fallen victim to the younger Cameron sister's persistent interrogation and famed blackmail. The woman's mouth hung open, closing periodically like a goldfish.

"I thought—but Joe doesn't—eternal bachelor, _bullshit_." Cara was only able to decipher a few words of her garbled speech. She was looking at the jacket, folded and slung over the arm of the sofa, with an odd look in her eyes.

"What is it?" Cara said defensively.

Abby pursed her lips, the laughter from her eyes erased, and shook her head. "Nothing," she said, and feigned a yawn. "I'm _really_ tired and can barely think straight—"

"Bull," Cara proclaimed. "I borrow a jacket and you lose your mind over whose it is. Now you're quiet. What the hell is it?"

The woman stood up and adjusted the hem of her sparkling miniskirt. "I don't think this is a good idea, Pierce."

"I already told you, I'm not—"

She shook her head. "Not that." Cara knew immediately what she was referencing, and wondered how long her best friend and the entire group surrounding her true target had known. Her cover had been blown in barely any time, and the long, disapproving look that Abby gave her said it all. The woman may not have read the minute details of her case, but she knew enough. "You need to stay away from Joe Solomon at all costs. Matt will go to the ends of the earth to protect that man, and you don't want to be in the middle of it."

Cara remained silent and watched as Abby ambled to her bedroom, calling one last thing over her shoulder.

"You might also want to check whose side you should really be on, Pierce."

They were nearly the same words that Matthew Morgan had hissed to her at the cabin. Cara rubbed her eyes; all the giggling and excitement from their night out were gone. She gave a hard stare at the text message that popped up on the phone, powered off the device and collected her bag of toiletries.

She needed a day off. And most importantly, to return to the days when her personal life and work life were two separate entities—the former practically nonexistent.

* * *

Joe was accustomed to the smell of burnt food and the howl of the smoke alarm when he visited the Morgan's home. That particular Sunday morning, it was charred fried eggs and blackened pancakes. Sitting in the dining room, he had a prime view of Rachel tossing a washcloth to the floor angrily and giving her failed attempt at cooking a very frazzled and teary-eyed look.

"I had a bagel on the way to dropping Cammie off, sweetheart," Matt called, sensing his wife's distress, though his eyes remained glued to his crossword puzzle. He pushed his reading glasses up the bridge of his nose. "What's a thirteen letter word for tension-filled wine-tasting?"

"Cork room drama," Joe replied, watching as Rachel stomped angrily towards the freezer.

She pulled out Eggo's waffles, and gripped the yellow cardboard angrily. "There's maple syrup in the fridge," she said, and threw the box as hard as she could at her husband. He caught it against his chest and blinked. "Help yourself."

Joe shook his head, chuckled and rose from his seat to pop two into a toaster. "I don't think Cammie's going to be happy when she finds out two grown-ass men finished her waffles," he remarked. The house was empty, as she'd gone to school, and he stared at the pictures on the fridge in amusement. "You didn't need the face paint to prove you're a clown, Matt."

"That's real funny," he said dryly, and shot a glower at Rachel's snicker. "You'll understand when you have your own kids."

Rachel snorted. "I'll give a hundred bucks to see the day Joe Solomon gets hitched. He doesn't have time for women, remember?"

"I don't," Joe said defensively. "I don't have time for kids either."

"That's ironic, considering how you're practically a father to—" Matt cut off abruptly at Joe's short cough. He returned his gaze to his newspaper while Joe shuffled to the fridge to retrieve the syrup.

Rachel narrowed her eyes. Her gaze flickered between the two men, and she was instantly suspicious. "What? Do you have some illegitimate child I don't know about?" she asked.

Joe took a seat across from her at the six-person dining table. He stuck a fork into his waffle in irritation, catching Matt's apologetic look out of the corner of his eye. It was true—ever since Zach's first visit, Catherine had dropped him off at the Roseville gazebo a total of three times in a month, all for short periods of time. Usually, there was a text asking if he was in Virginia, and then a notification that her eight year-old child was stationed in one of the town's central attractions. Sometimes it was in the middle of the night, and sometimes it was during the day, but Zach always came equipped with a few wrinkled pairs of clothing in a tiny backpack, and a forlorn frown on his face.

The little boy was tranforming from a murderer's son to a child he cared for deeply as if he were his own, and Joe knew that his attachment would become dangerous.

"Nothing," Joe said quickly. "It's just an inside joke."

Rachel ground her teeth, and watched him shovel through his food. "Liars. What the hell are you hiding from me?"

"Honey. Drop it," Matt said under his breath, discreetly gesturing at Joe with a tilt of his head. When it came to keeping secrets, the man had a tendency of being extremely sensitive, and they risked an angry outburst with every push for information.

She sighed, and glanced at his crossword. "East German currency until 1990. Ostmark. You have one of those in your coin collection."

Matt frowned. "I knew that," he muttered sourly, scribbling the answer onto the paper. Rachel smirked triumphantly, and he changed the topic before she could tease him. "How is the Schmidt mission?"

"I have a flight to England, early Saturday morning after I debrief about last week's Tunisia operation. There's a trap set to capture the man that's been tailing me," he explained, setting down his fork. "All I need to do is get to the interrogation room before Cara does."

Rachel exchanged a long glance with her husband. "And in the occasional that he blurts something about your roots in the Circle..." she trailed. "What would you do then?"

He was silent for a length of time, as if he had been in denial all along about the probability of such an occurrence. There wasn't much he could do at that point, and Edwards would probably walk in with a smug smile on his face and a pair of handcuffs. It would take seconds for him to get cornered, and he didn't have much of a contingency plan to secure his survival. No matter how the situation played out, Joe would eventually lose. And it would all have been because of a stupid commitment he made at the age of sixteen and acted upon for the following five years.

Matt took off his glasses, folded them onto the table and rubbed his eyes tiredly—though it was only nine in the morning. "She knows," he said quietly, watching his friend's expression remain stolid. "Edwards debriefed her on the original intents of the mission even before the first day it went into effect, back at Buckingham Palace."

Joe barely blinked, and poured himself a glass of orange juice.

Rachel reached over and placed a hand on his arm. "We're all in this until the end. You need to say something, Joe, so that we can help—"

"No," he said roughly and jerked away, slamming the glass onto the table hard enough that the liquid sloshed over the rim. "I'm dealing with this _myself_. The last thing we need is for Edwards to add you to the list—" He stopped abruptly, his eyebrows furrowed. "Wait. You seem so sure about this. How would you have it confirmed?"

Matt fiddled with his newspaper, staring down at the black, inky text of _The New York Times_. The guilt was apparent on his features, and he tried to keep his tone reassuring and level. "I... had a conversation with her when she was at the cabin." His eyes flickered to his wife as she processed that particular piece of unknown information. "I told her that I knew what she was doing, gave a few warnings, and she seemed pretty shaken—"

"Oh my God, Matt, you _didn't_ —"

Joe stood up, his green eyes darkened with anger. "This is _exactly_ what I was afraid of!" he thundered. "You put yourself on the line and painted an even bigger bulls-eye on your back. You already have the Circle behind you, and the last thing you need is the goddamn agency you're working for to sic an assassin on you!"

"Do I look like I give a damn? You don't get to play victim and take on the world yourself. Your hero complex is going to get you killed and you'll just leave the rest of us behind to suffer—"

"You have a fucking _eight year-old daughter_!" Joe interrupted, his voice a loud bellow. "Did you ever think of how she'll feel when her father doesn't come home from a mission one day?"

Rachel cradled her head in her hands as she listened to the heated exchange between the two friends. "Can you _please_ stop arguing—"

"Yes. I do. Every single minute I'm away from home," Matt hissed, pushing himself to his feet and gripping the edge of the table angrily. "But you know what? Saving a couple hundred lives from the Circle is a _little_ more important than reading her a story before bed. Nothing will stop me from coming back to my family other than death, so don't you dare accuse me of _anything_ while I'm still breathing."

Joe laughed bitterly. "You don't know what you have, do you, Matt?" he spat. "You have a wife, a daughter, a fucking _home_. The minute you screw yourself over by getting involved with these people—people like _me_ —then it's all over."

"You are the most selfish son of a bitch I have met in my life! You're in this family whether you like it or not, Joe—"

" _Selfish?_ I'm trying to keep you all safe—"

"The hell you aren't! Your hero complex is making you blind—"

"Hero complex? I'm done with your idiocy—"

Rachel finally stood up indignantly, and raised her voice to a yell. "Will you _please_ shut the hell up!" The two men froze at her intervention, chests heaving from endless arguing, and their full attention turned to her. Tears pricked her eyes and she clenched her jaw. "That _disgusting_ , hellish woman is going to kill the two of you without lifting a finger, if you keep fighting like this. You need to stop throwing yourself in the frontline," she said to Matt, and then turned on Joe. "And _you_ need to let us help and accept that we're standing with you until the end. I swear to God, I'm shooting the both of you myself if you keep acting so bullheaded and stubborn."

Joe rubbed his temples, an oncoming migraine throbbing at his head. "I need time to cool off. I'm sorry. You're right," he said to Rachel first, and then looked at Matt. "And you were right, too. I'm—I'm going to go pack. I'll see you when I get back. Give my love to Cammie." His words were rushed, as he struggled to get them out as quickly as possible, and ducked out of the kitchen and out of the house without another word.

Matt's fingers pressed against the table, and he stared at the spilled orange juice. As Rachel watched him, her heart clenched. Suddenly, the circles around his eyes were so much more prominent, his shoulders slouching low in defeat. She lifted a hand and cupped his jaw, turning his attention her way. He was hurting for his friend, she knew, but there wasn't much they could do for someone that didn't want to be helped.

"He's right, sweetheart," she said quietly, and the silence was a drastic change from the chaos only moments ago. "I know it doesn't seem like it, but he's hurting for all the right reasons. The things he said, about a family, a home..." She pressed her lips together in a thin line when his dark eyes met hers. "He's right. Those are all things that can be stolen away from him at any minute, without any security."

His arms went around her and he pulled her close, burying his face in his hair and inhaling the therapeutic scent of her lavender soap. "That much anger gets people killed," he muttered. " _No one_ should have all that bottled inside, and if Max puts too much pressure... God knows what will happen then."

Rachel ran her fingers through the hair at the back of his head, and pressed a kiss to his neck. "Keep trying. There's always a solution, and we _will_ find a way out of this."

His words were filled with doubt, his confidence wavering, and she heard the fear and apprehension in his voice for the first time.

"We can only hope."


	9. Chapter 9

**AN** : This is probably my favorite chapter, because it wrote itself so easily, and it's also the longest one yet. Read, review, and let me know what you think!

 **CHAPTER NINE**

Joe stared at the black-and-white poster advertising the 1964 thriller, _Ring of Spies_. For some reason, the faces plastered across the glossy paper mocked him. The movie was familiar to him: it was about a traitor, someone that sold out his own friends and family in hopes of a better life, disclosing covert information from his agency. He wondered if it had been purposefully placed that day. Though he had never betrayed the CIA, his secrets were driving him close, and he was putting his loved ones on the line while he tried to clear his name.

He shook his head, and glanced back at the reflection of a sniper's scope through the window of the shop. Though Cara had said it was placed there by the Circle to watch her, it could have just as well been a lie to cover up a shooter offering her aid on the occasions that he stopped by. He promised he would meet her one month after their encounter at the cabin, but the last breakfast he had with the Morgans had him fabricating an excuse to push the time for another two weeks to mull over his options.

He still didn't have an answer.

While it was in his inherent nature to plan every miniscule detail of his missions, his mind hit a blockade when he tried to find a solution that _didn't_ involve murder. His only option to keep his past under wraps was if he silenced the people that discovered him, and it was in his best interests to keep his hands clean of any more blood than he was already accountable for.

He knew he was being watched—not just by the sniper, but by her, too. The curtain on the second floor shifted slightly, the movement natural and barely noticeable, but he had been trained to be observant enough to take note of the smallest of things. Joe stood with his hands in his pockets, allowing the London drizzle to dampen his hair, as he stared through the window of the film shop like a curious tourist. His reflection stared back at him, and he was disappointed to see the complete and utter defeat in his eyes.

Sometimes he wondered why he ran, because surely, death would have been better than being on the run all the damn time.

As he went up the stairs, his eyes glanced at all the bugs scattered through the hallway. A listening device under the banister, a camera at the edge of a painting, sensors inside the creaking stairs. The building was infested with a spy's best playthings, and he idly wondered if this was what the little store sold in their back rooms. He rapped his fingers against the door in their usual stream of identifying knocks, and he heard locks slide as she opened the door. He was surprised to see that all of her belongings were packed into a tiny duffel bag, as if she had been planning to leave just as he was arriving.

Joe furrowed his eyebrows when he looked at her. Her hair was tied into a ponytail away from her face, revealing hollowed cheeks and emphasizing her exhausted eyes. She was dressed in a black shirt, dark blue jeans, black rain boots and a red rain coat. She had been planning to take off—she gnawed on her lip when she stared at him, as if she was surprised at his arrival, despite the curtain he had seen swaying.

He opened his mouth decidedly; after Matt's intervention, it was best that he confronted the issue directly. "I think we need to have a conversation that's severely overdue—"

Her finger went over his lips, shushing him, and her grey eyes stared at him pointedly. "I was planning on a capture-and-release of the tail you've had all over England ever since the Palace. What do you think?" she said casually, though her gaze held a very different message.

 _We're being watched_.

And it definitely wasn't by someone she wanted.

Joe nodded slowly, following her to a corner of the room that served as a blind spot. "Sounds like a plan. Where are we doing this?"

She sat down on the bed and zipped up the duffel carefully. "We need to secure a perimeter. That way, the situation's in our control." _This place isn't safe. We need to leave now._

He wondered if he should trust her words, but the panic in her eyes seemed very real. "Do you have everything we'll need?"

"I'll dead drop this bag as a decoy. We'll track him with a GPS placed inside." When he glanced inside, however, the clothing, passport, and gun told a different story.

Joe pursed his lips, and offered to take it off her hands. "Do you know his name?" he inquired, settling the strap over his shoulder.

She pushed herself off the bed and gripped his arm. "Yes. It's Al O'Briens." However, she leaned forward until her lips grazed the shell of his ear, and said a name that he did not expect, especially due to her former displays of unwavering trust.

 _Maxwell Edwards_.

When they stepped out into the rain again, he thought she was going to hail a cab or slip into an unlocked car, something characteristic of her usual patterns. However, she took off in the opposite direction and sped into a crowd of pedestrians until they were completely blended in... other than her blaringly obvious red coat. He knew that she was an immediate target, should anyone consult aerial satellite images.

"What the _hell_ is going on?" he muttered, the chatter of two overly confident women overshadowing his words.

She shook her head, warning him. "I don't know. Something—I think the mission's been compromised. There are bugs there that weren't there before, and when I tried to trace them, everything led back to Max."

Joe kept his lips sealed, along with the suggestion that it wouldn't be _that_ big of a shock that Max had decided to take matters into his own hands, especially after any flags raised by Matt's intrusion. "You knew where to look. That's how you found them, isn't it?"

Cara nodded. "Four tails. Two of them are the women to our right, and those are Interpol." Her tone was disconcerted as she muttered, "I had Christmas dinner with them a few months ago."

He slowed his pace slightly and watched the two women do the same. They were cleverly using reflections on windows and phones to check if they were still behind them. He grabbed Cara's wrist slightly and let them move along a further distance away, before he quickly ducked into a retail clothing store. "They were too far ahead. I think someone else came in behind us, though."

She frowned, and watched him grab random clothing off of racks with barely a second glance. "They don't look like any agency, but then again, that could mean it's the Circle."

Joe cursed. "Where's the nearest college?" he asked. When she started towards the counters to pay, like she thought he would, he roughly grabbed her arm and shoved her into a changing room with him.

"Imperial College. Shouldn't be more than a five minute drive, but it'll take an hour to walk." Her eyes widened, taken aback, as he began unbuttoning his shirt.

He fished a leather backpack out of the pile of clothing and tossed it to her. "Take what you can from the duffel, and leave the rest. Make sure you throw out any clothes with buttons. Anything could be hidden in those."

Cara watched out of the corner of her eye as he stripped off his shirt, revealing an extremely muscular, tan—and scarred—torso. He pulled on a maroon sweatshirt with some witty saying and a baseball cap. She would've made a joke about how incredibly _odd_ he looked in casual clothing, but his serious expression prevented her from doing so. He took over filling the bag and pointed at the white shirt, forest green jacket, and shoebox that were already sitting in the room, most likely discarded by a previous customer.

"This jacket was a _gift_ ," she said indignantly. "It doesn't have any bugs, I promise."

He stared at her, as if trying to figure out whether or not she was joking. "Who gave it to you?"

She paused, sighed, and did as he said, ripping off tags from the items. She snorted internally when she noticed him spare her a glance that lingered too long when she changed her shirt. As she shoved her feet into a pair of tan Timberland work boots, she watched him take apart her laptop, shoving the shell into a waste bin as he reached towards her and put the hard drive in her pocket. "For the love of God, Joe—"

"You've been on kill missions longer than you've been on covert operations. I won't complain when you try teaching me how to kill someone with a toothpick, deal?"

She rolled her eyes and groaned, a bit ruffled when he ordered her to put on the backpack as they swiftly exited the store. When they were a block away, she looked back to see someone walking in the opposite direction wearing her red coat and his navy button-down. They mixed buses and trains, backtracked several times. They changed lines, lost tails, and took side roads. What should have been a forty-five minute route took almost two hours, until they were amongst a flurry of college students mulling around campus.

Joe produced a black umbrella seemingly out of nowhere, and they blended right in with the busy campus scenery. Old, historic buildings towered over them, as kids sprinted past in the rain or sped by on bicycles. Eventually, they ducked into what looked like a residence hall, behind a teenager that had foolishly swept his card and held the door open for them.

"They have a basement," Cara pointed out, and peered down at the descending stairs in the emergency staircase. "Probably storage, right? It'll give us a chance to take a break and come up with a game plan."

He pursed his lips and nodded, and let her led them into the lower level. A narrow hallway gave way to a boiler room and several storage areas. She made quick work of picking the lock a room that opened up to reveal welcome banners and trolleys, most likely reserved for move-in days. For some reason, the combination of the freezing cold of the lower level and the rumbling coming from the boiler room set off a fuse inside of him.

"When are we going to stop pretending that Schmidt is the one you're hunting down?" His voice was eerily calm, and it made her blood freeze.

She should have known that Matt would have debriefed him, before letting him come back to London. "I don't—" she stammered. "Your _friend_ made himself clear. I didn't threatened you in the slightest, so I don't know why you have a problem with a simple surveillance operation—"

"But it's _not_ surveillance, is it?" he pressed. "You're trying to set me up for my own execution. You know that I'm not entirely free of guilt, so what was the master plan? Capture, with a side of torture, before release? Record him giving up information on me, in exchange for freedom?"

She slid off her hair tie and ran her fingers through her hair, perched against a large cardboard box. Her posture was relaxed, but she was ready; though he didn't look particularly violent at the moment, her instincts told her that things could change very quickly. She was much more transparent than she had anticipated, and Max clearly didn't care for covering her tracks like he had promised her he would. "You said it yourself, Solomon: you're not guilty, and God knows what else you're planning on."

Joe chuckled bitterly, and shook his head. "Yeah? And what else did Max say?" he spat. "Did he tell you how I can't even see my own goddaughter because I'm afraid my past will bite back at her? Did he tell you about how I haven't done a single thing for the Circle in ten years?"

"You're taking care of Catherine's son," she said lamely. She discreetly slid her weapon from the side pocket of the backpack.

"Right. Because making sure an eight year-old isn't thrown to the wolves at Blackthorne is a crime against humanity."

She scoffed incredulously. "1989, East Berlin. You took a little girl hostage and tried to ransom her for information to use against the United States." Her voice was robotic, as if she was reading the files from memory. "1993, you set fire to a house with two parents and three children because there was a _suspicion_ that one of your precious Circle contacts was going to start talking about your plans to leave the organization. You haven't changed a bit, Joe—your tactics are the same. You're selfish and as self-preserving as the rest of them—"

He surged forward and grabbed the wrist that had been holding the gun behind her back. "If you're so sure about everything he's told you, then _do it_. Erase those ten years I've spent on the run, trying to right every single goddamn mistake I made."

Cara's eyes were wide, and under his wide-shouldered and towering frame, she felt her senses spike with fear. "Max doesn't have some personal vendetta against you," she said, though her own voice was unsure. She tried to pry herself away, and he persisted.

"Max has been trying to accuse me of Circle missions that took place thousands of miles away, just for the sake of a promotion and taking down the group of agents I call my friends. Did you ever think of Abby, Pierce? What about her? Did Max tell you he'd take care of her?" he said, his emerald eyes trained on her with an intense stare.

 _"Don't worry about Abby. Personal relationships are a liability. If she's innocent, then there isn't a problem. If she isn't... well, you'll be glad you listened to me, won't you?_ " Max had told her. Knowing him, he'd fabricate a piece of evidence and lock her behind bars, setting off a domino of associated agents that would be framed and arrested.

Suddenly, his promises of Hampstead didn't look as appealing and hopeful.

Cara squeezed her eyes shut. "You have blood on your hands. You don't deserve to be walking around," she said, but the lines seemed rehearsed.

His eyes were bright and he didn't argue against her statement. "I know," he said coolly. "And I've been hell-bent on taking a lifetime to fix what happened in five years. I deserve to be dead like all those people I killed, don't I?" His hand covered hers as he tightened her grip for her around the gun. He flipped off the safety of the gun and stared at her. "Do it, if you think there is _nothing_ wrong about Edwards motives, and if you really believe that's what I deserve."

She remained silent, and a tremble raked through her body at the fierce expression he gave her. It was stripped clean of walls and formalities—filled with anger, guilt, and most of all, deep rooted pain.

He held the gun with his hand around hers much more forcefully, and lifted it to his temple, moving her finger onto the trigger. "You make your own judgements _. Take the shot_ , Agent Pierce."

Cara's arm was trembling violently, and her chest heaved as she struggled to breath. She had one rule when it came to her job: never look in the eyes of your victim. Because those were always the windows to every inside them, all the stories and experiences she would never be able to see through a simple manila folder filled with papers.

"Stop it, Joe," she choked, her voice rough. His grip was still tight, as the barrel of the gun pressed against his head and her finger remained glued to the trigger. "I can't do it."

With those words, he released her. The weapon clattered out of both their hands and onto the concrete floor. He stepped away, giving her a look of both hatred and disgust, though the expression disappeared within seconds and was replaced with a cold mask.

The sound of a maintenance making its way downstairs caught his attention. "We'd better get out of here. There's an emergency exit down the hall. We'll split off from there," he said, his tone emotionless.

She nodded. Their mission would have to wait; he was too angry to even look at her, and he stared at the opposite wall when he spoke. Something made her doubt whether she would ever meet Joe Solomon again.

With one last look of contempt at the discarded gun, he ducked out of the door and left her standing alone, amid dusty boxes and overturned trolleys.

* * *

Most Sunday mornings started the same way:

Sweat-slicked skin and harsh breathing. Breathy moans and sharp gasps. Heavy-lidded eyes and tangled limbs. It was barely dawn when she woke up again, and the sky outside was black, other than a strip of glowing white along the horizon. She pulled the bedsheets around her and stared at the person in bed besides her. Even in sleep, he practically oozed arrogance—his hands folded behind his head, feet crossed at the ankle, a comforter bundled at his hips. His chest rose and fell steadily with his slow breathing.

Cara sighed, turned onto her side away from him and stared at the phone on her nightstand. She had seen him insert a small bug inside when she left it on the kitchen counter for barely a minute. He was growing suspicious, and as his paranoia hightened, he took extreme measures against her to ensure his own security.

She felt his rough fingers trace a pathway down her spine, sending a shiver rippling through her. His lips pressed against her shoulder and she heard the ruffling of sheets as he moved forward until his chest was against her back. He slung an arm over her waist, and spoke in a husky tone, his voice low in her ear.

"I thought you'd be sleeping, love," he said, and his voice held a hint of accusation that confused her. The uncharacteristic pet name didn't go unnoticed either.

Cara gnawed on her lip, her hand sliding over his. "I have a lot on my mind."

He hummed under his breath. "Like what?" he asked, and for once, his self-absorption seemed to crack enough for him to genuinely care.

There were a lot of things. How he put all of his counterintelligence procedures against her. How Joe Solomon was a guilty man, but also very innocent at the same time. How she was beginning to doubt his motives for pinning the man as a criminal. How every fiber of her being was starting to tell her that she was on the wrong side of the playing board.

But she said none of it, and instead remained silent.

"I can help you get your mind off of it," Max suggested, and his scruff scratched against her jaw. He moved her so that she was lying flat on the bed, and hovered over her.

Her heart was racing, but for all the wrong reasons. She gripped his shoulder and tried to wriggle away. "Not now, Edwards," she gritted. "I'm not in the mood."

He ignored her and continued his assault on her neck.

Exasperated, she slammed her palms against his chest and pushed him backwards forcefully. He jolted back, and stared at her in a mixture of anger and bewilderment.

"What the hell is your problem?" he demanded.

She launched off the bed and quickly shoved her arms and legs into clothing. She ignored him each of the three times that he repeated the question. She zipped up her jeans and threw on a coat, until he finally grabbed her arm.

"Hello? Is there something I did, Pierce? I'm standing right here and you're ignoring me like I'm some fucking piece of litter on the street," he gritted, his American accent thickening over his British one as he grew more agitated. "If this is about the Solomon mission—"

Cara shook her head, and made it a point to snatch her phone off the nightstand and throw it back at him. "What's _my_ problem?" She laughed bitterly and her fingers clenched into fists—her words sounded irrational in her own head. "Why don't you answer that question first, _love_?"

She made sure to slam the door as hard as she could on her way out.


	10. Chapter 10

**AN** : I'm trying something new for this sort-of "filler" chapter. Let me know what you think.

 **CHAPTER TEN**

"How does it feel to be the most wanted woman on earth?"

She threw back her head and laughed, clanging her glass against those of the married couple seated across from her. The crew was beginning to assemble itself, and they rearranged themselves around the table.

"Triple threat," someone said teasingly. "Here's to hoping the lies never catch up."

A girlish giggle. "And to that goddamn jewel you owe me for Christmas."

"God forbid a man pisses you off," a man grumbled. "You'd empty his bank account in seconds."

The ringleader shook his head, chuckled, bumping shoulders with his wife. "To a summer of wealth and misfortune," he said, "and absolutely _thrilling_ police chases."

She tilted her head in gratitude as a waiter dutifully filled her flute with champagne. She swirled it slightly, gave the liquid a brief stare before the smile reappeared on her face.

"Cheers."

* * *

Joe squatted down next to the boy on the gazebo. In his hands was a signed baseball from the New York Yankees, and he wore a cap that was too large on his head with a matching logo. For the first time in weeks, Zachary Goode offered him the tiniest of smiles.

"Mom is going to make me throw them out. She thinks you're trying to steal me when she isn't looking," he confessed, and watched the man's reaction carefully—after all, he was an extremely perceptive child, the product of the influence of renowned agents.

He shook his head in disbelief. "I'm not trying to take you anywhere, bud. Make sure you tell your mom that. At the end, she's still the woman that raised you, right?" He barely caught the next shocking words that came out of Zach's mouth.

"But what if I _want_ you to take me?" he mumbled, his head ducked low.

Completely at loss, Joe said nothing. While Catherine wasn't the most explicitly loving mother when she was in one of her moods, she had proved to him that she cared and was capable. From what he gathered, the woman had given birth when she had absolutely nothing, jumping between traincars and public restrooms to breastfeed her son. Even to this day, she was on the run, her bursts of radical ideas occasionally pushing her out of the Circle. But, without avail, she always seemed to find a way to keep the little boy safe... even if it meant pushing the responsibility to Joe.

Before he could even begin to formulate a response, Zach cleverly changed the topic. "Can we play catch?" he said, hopping on one of the gazebo benches and swinging his legs under him.

"Sorry, sweetheart," Catherine interjected, melting out of a passing group. Her red hair framed her face and her green eyes were kind. She was dressed in a slick pantsuit, and her meetings must have gone well, because she was in a pleasant mood. She ducked down and pressed a kiss to her son's cheek. "Time to go home. We'll read the story about the king and queen, your favorite—"

"I don't want to go home!" he burst, eyes watery as he clutched his baseball. Never before had the boy thrown a tantrum, and his angry outburst was a product of months of building frustration. "I want to stay with Joe."

Catherine whirled a glower of accusation at the man, but kept her tone soft for her child. "You'll see him again soon. I don't have time for this, Zach, we _need_ to go home."

The way she emphasized the word told him that she had a tail. His lips pressed together in a grim line and he nodded in understanding, squatting down to the boy's eye level. He grasped his shoulders in a firm, yet comforting, grip.

"Remember what I told you, bud. She's your mother and she's gone through hell to take care of you." Zach nodded, his cheeks ruddy and wet with tears. "Go on; we'll meet again soon, I'm sure."

Catherine simply looked at him with a conflicted glimmer in her eyes—she would never thank him for anything, but that glance would be enough. "Time to disappear, honey," she whispered, lifted him into her arms, and became a blur in the crowds of Roseville's central square.

He stood alone in the gazebo for a moment, his hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks. His tall, broad-shouldered, and stolid appearance along with his extremely unapproachable personality made him a scary man, but all it took was an eight year-old boy to make his heart clench. He stared ahead, until someone entered his peripheral on the small bridge that stretched over the pond.

Cara Pierce. A bitter taste entered his mouth.

Her fingers were drumming a pattern against the wooden railings of the bridge. Though she was looking down at the water, his movements were purposeful, encoded in Morse.

 _Local bar in three hours. I have intel on Schmidt._

She departed with only a brief glance in his direction, without even considering his answer. They were back in the professional terrain; they werr not friends, companions, or even coworkers. They were just two agents stuck together on one mission, hoping to finish it off as soon as possible. He knew that neither of them would be keeping in touch for old times' sake, holding the operation in the back of their heads for sentimental value, or keeping their phone numbers programmed.

Cara had tried to con him, and that was something he would never forget.

Joe squeezed his eyes shut when he ducked back into his car for the drive to his safehouse until their meeting. The phone in his hand felt like a rock, and he dialed the number with a bated breath.

"I just saw you, Wise Guy. Miss me already?" Catherine's voice was smooth, and the background was deathly silent. He wondered where she had gone.

"I had to ask, Catherine. He doesn't remember me—why?"

He kept her charade long enough, but each and every time, her green-eyed gaze told a different story. She remembered, too. Those nights she spent in prison, on the run, sprinting through streets and sleeping in alleyways. All those times, she was never able to take care of a baby herself, its innocent and sharp cries a dead giveaway to anyone tailing her. There had always been someone to take him away and return him in a little basket on whatever doorstep she was squatting at for the night. Their routine had gone on for five years, until she finally disappeared and kept her child out of sight.

For a while, he had decieved himself. After all, the boy had grown and looked like an entirely new person, other than those dark eyes and his messy hair. The boy represented everything he and the woman had nine years ago, before she had fallen pregnant and disappeared off the face of earth, only to reappear with a bundle of blankets in her arms. He'd been like the rest—ostracized her, broke their bond of trust, and created a rift between them.

He had asked the question at every meeting, about whose he was, yet the answer was always vague and her vision would grow clouded as she became unstable.

The first time he saw Zach again... it had been hard to breathe. It was their little secret. Other than Catherine and Joe, not even Matt knew the truth.

"He was small and untrained. I couldn't risk him—he was too young to keep secrets," Catherine whispered into the phone.

"So you erased me from his head," he said flatly. He didn't know why, but for some reason, it hurt.

She exhaled. "I don't need to discuss this with you, Solomon. He's my son and I make decisions that I think are the best for us, and most importantly, best for _him_. Don't try to interfere."

He suddenly remembered his true intentions behind calling her. "I wanted to tell you that you have a tail. Cara Pierce has been on your back for a very long time. She means no harm to Zach, but I can see her becoming a problem if she raises any flags with the CIA."

A pause. "I see." Her tone was clipped and dubious, not quite believing that he wanted to help her. "Anything else?"

Something brought him to ask her again. Maybe it was the insistence in her tone to keeo the emotional ties between him and Zach in check, or maybe it was her fear that he'd take the boy away from her. "Is he—" he cut off abruptly.

The question hung between them, until Catherine finally replied. And for the first time, it was a real answer, and not a roundabout excuse to keep him wondering.

"No. He isn't."

When she hung up the phone, he wondered why it was disappointment he felt that he truly had nothing to call his own.

* * *

"You're keeping the case."

The statement was awkward, a cross between a question, an observation, and an order. Despite the knots that her decision caused, she gave it anyway.

"Yes. I'm transferring phases. Honeypot."

Her throat closed and she had to choke out the last word. Her target knew what she was after... but him knowing was the perfect setup to put a new plan into motion. A plan that would take all of her effort for her to crack him, weasel her way in, and ultimately destroy him.

"Okay. Good." He cleared his throat, his sigh emanating from the speaker as a burst of static. "And Cara?"

She pursed her lips, thinking that he was finally about to say _something_ , acknowledge his mistakes and apologize to her. But she was wrong.

"I... Nevermind. Thank you for informing me of your decision."

* * *

Joe had frequented the Roseville Bar and Grill more times than he would have liked to admit, and it wasn't for their famous steak—though he definitely indulged himself on occasion. He was lucky that the restaurant never kept a bartender for long, or else his face would have been engraved in their memory.

"Why so public?" he asked quietly, when she slid onto a barstool next to him.

Her gaze was fixed on the wall of bottles. "I thought it was best that I stay away from both the safehouse and Zach Goode."

He hummed under his breath in agreement. It was true—though he wasn't nearly as vulnerable as before, the last thing he needed was for her to invite herself when one of the Morgans were present. Joe wasn't particularly sure how he felt about their arrangement. She was an agent commissioned by Max Edwards to pin him as a Circle member. She was completely aware that he knew of her intentions, as he'd made it blatantly obvious during their trip to London, yet they remained partners solely to fulfill the original goal of taking down Schmidt.

Sometimes he wondered when his life started to get so dysfunctional.

Cara cleared her throat. "Anyway. Schmidt is scheduled to land in New York City on the Fourth of July. His itinerary has him booked in the Marriott Hotel for only two nights. He is scheduled for dinner in surrounding boroughs with very high profile politicians that he is known to fund when voting season rolls around. Afterwards, on the third night, he is staying at a very small and off-the-charts inn in the Bronx, where he will be making a second attempt to contact Mr. Haber."

"The same art auctioneer in Iceland? Why are they meeting in the goddamn _Bronx_ , of all places?"

She shrugged. "The more dangerous your meeting site, the harder it is for a third party to infiltrate the scene undetected. Considering the fact that Schmidt is a known giant in the Circle business..." She paused briefly here, and gave him an uncomfortable look. "It's safe to assume that the chemicals that will be exchanged on site will be put to a very dangerous use. It is in our interest to intercept this exchange _again_ and if the time is right, make an attempt on Schmidt's life."

He drummed his hand against the counter of the bar, taking in the information she had given him. He supposed it didn't matter anymore, if Schmidt decided to open his mouth and reveal damaging information about him. It was too late to back out as well, seeing as the CIA had approved of his collaboration and assigned him to the case—most likely as a result of Edwards' persistence.

"Send me a map of the perimeter and the inside of the hotels and meeting points," he said decidedly. "If it's close enough, we can use Times' Square to regroup after exfil."

She nodded slowly, processing his words. She grabbed a napkin and a pen out of her purse, scribbled numbers onto it. "My new number. Max decided to take the liberty of bugging my old phone, so I figured it was time to be a little rebellious."

Joe chuckled a bit, and tucked the napkin into his pocket. "Do you want a drink?" he offered awkwardly, purely out of proprietary.

She politely declined, and stood up. "I have to go, before Abby catches wind that I'm in town and drags me to the bars again." She gnawed on her lip, and lingered for a split second longer. "I... I wanted to apologize. I hope you understand exactly what kind of situation I am, between Max and his rather... cold-hearted tendencies."

He bristled, and shook his head. "Next time you see him, tell him to take his own advice," he said, his gaze hardening. " _Relationships are liabilities._ "


	11. Chapter 11

**AN** : I couldn't help but dish out a bit of fun time between the squad in the first bit. Things get a little more serious in the second.

 **CHAPTER ELEVEN**

"Joe, sweetheart..." Abby trailed, a sickly sweet smile on her face. "Do you need a reminder of what we used to do, less than three years ago?"

He bristled and shot her a glower, just as Matt and Rachel's heads snapped to attention. "That has nothing to do with—" he forced out of his gritted teeth. He shook his head, and huffed. "I thought we were talking about your Geneva op!"

"Hold on a second—what did you do three years ago?" Rachel demanded. If there was one thing she hated, it was being kept out of the loop. Her workplace was a constant struggle of respecting the 'need-to-know' boundaries, and she'd rather get alcohol poisoning in Peru than be teased with secrets by her little sister.

Abby sent Joe a wicked grin. "Oh, wouldn't you like to know."

"She really wouldn't," he assured the woman, who was on the verge of clawing her way to their inside jokes.

Matt was glancing between them slowly, assessing him in that silent way of his. His bottle of beer dangled from his fingers, his other arm around the back of the loveseat behind Rachel. Sensing Joe's growing agitation, he attempted to breeze past the current topic. "So, about Geneva..."

"Switzerland has great mountains for skiing," Joe added earnestly and a bit too eagerly.

Abby's hand somehow landed on his thigh as she leaned forward to pick her drink off the coffee table. "Sure is. But the real attractions are the spas. _God_ , I'd kill to peel off my clothes and have a good soak—"

"Abby," Joe interjected.

"Yes, Joey?"

He politely removed her hand and scooted an inch away. "Please shut up."

Matt snorted at that, and watched the fire ignite in the woman's eyes. "Rachel, I think he just told your little sister to shut up."

His wife was seated with her arms crossed over her chest and a sour glint in her green irises. "She can hold her own, seeing as I'm not important enough to know all these inside stories."

"I'd tell you, but then I'd have to kill you," Abby said childishly. "But if you're really eager to know, Joe is _fantastic_ when it comes to—"

Joe covered her mouth with his hand, ignoring the bite on his palm and the devious look she gave him. "Classified information. Abby has a big mouth," he said.

She shoved his arm away. "I really do. I'm glad you remember that much."

For some reason, Rachel was having an awfully difficult time reading into their conversation; her mind was defaulted to never suspect her best friend and sister of ever being more than friends, and she remained forever oblivious to their antics. Matt practically imploded when he understood, his jaw dropping considerably.

"Holy _shit—"_

All it took was a small creak on the stairs for Joe to nearly jump out of his skin and leap off the couch. He had disappeared when the little girl came lumbering down the steps halfway and peeked her head into the living room through the banister. Her brown eyes feigned innocence as she peered through the wooden beams, her rumpled brown hair resembling a rat's nest.

"Cameron Ann Morgan, what are you doing awake?" Rachel admonished, giving her daughter her best 'mom' look.

The little girl's rosy pink bottom lip jutted out in a pout. "I'm not sleepy," she whined, guilty at being caught trying to sneak down.

Her father winked at her from besides her mother and patted his lap. With a thrilled glee, she sprinted down, sliding on the glossy floors in her purple socks. She reared back, however, when she saw the third person in the room.

"Aunt Abby!" She burst into a shrill squeal and threw her arms around the woman's neck.

Abby laughed, squeezing her tight. "Nice to see you, too, Squirt. Guess what I brought you from Switzerland?"

Cammie tapped her chin as she thought. "Swiss cheese?" she giggled.

Her aunt snorted, and leaned forward to whisper in her ear. "Even better. Chocolate. Don't tell your mommy, though—I tucked it under your lock pick set."

Rachel sent her sister a disdainful frown, as the eight year-old climbed onto her father's lap. He chuckled when she immediately disclosed to him the news of the chocolates she was going to share with him. She leaned her head against his shoulder and made herself completely comfortable, and gave her mother a smug little grin, revealing a gap where her front two teeth should have been.

"Matt, don't encourage her," Rachel sighed in exasperation.

He simply mirrored his daughter's smile, and cradled her close to his chest.

"Daddy?" she said, lifting herself slightly to look him in the eye. Though she was young, he knew it was her way of checking if he was telling the truth. "I heard another person talking. Did someone leave?"

It took all his energy not to stiffen and he felt the Cameron sisters' eyes trained on him as he answered. "Yes, there was," he admitted, but the rest of his words were purely lies. How could he explain to his little girl how it was because she was loved so much that Joe had to stay away? "He left just before you came down because of how late it is."

She simply harrumphed and spent the next few minutes alternating between yawns and the occasional question to her aunt as she spoke about her mission. Soon, her drooping eyelids closed all the way and she was drooling on her father's favorite t-shirt, her mouth half open.

He sighed. "I'm going to go tuck her in. Maybe even sneak a bite of that candy."

Matt padded up the stairs as quietly as he could, her head lolling on his shoulder. When he reached her room, he gently sent her down on her pillow and settled the blankets around her, shushing her whine as she reached for him again.

"Shhh," he soothed, smoothing a hand over her soft brown locks. "I'm right here, sweetheart."

As he stared down at her and watched the way the crease between her eyebrows disappeared at his touch, he couldn't help but grin. She was truly a Daddy's girl, and he would forever bask in the fact that he was the favorite parent ever since she weaned off of Rachel's chest and onto the high chair, where he thoroughly enjoyed scooping up the green goop she spit all over him.

With a gently kiss to her forehead, he tiptoed out of her room and softly closed the door. He finally came downstairs, just as Joe emerged from the bathroom. Matt rolled his eyes and Rachel voiced exactly what he was thinking.

"Where the hell did you run off to?"

"Bathroom," he said smoothly, opening another bottle of beer and slouching down on the couch.

Matt returned to the loveseat. "For half an hour? Rachel's lasagna must have done something awful to your stomach."

She smacked her husband upside the head. "Don't insult my lasagna!" she huffed.

"Oh, God. I'd better take my leave, before the bickering couple starts making out on the couch like teenagers," Abby said, slinging her crossbody over her shoulder.

Joe downed his beer in two long gulps, as if he were back in the days where he and Matt lived like two broke college kids. "Me too. I have a long week ahead of me that I haven't prepared for at all."

Rachel sighed at their sudden departure. "Matt, did you tell him about that trip yet?"

He perked up at the reminder. "Right. I'm going up to Nebraska to visit my parents. Mom wants you and Abby to tag along, since Rachel has to drag Cammie around to some programs meant for the children of spies." He knew that his friend would consider the offer, especially if Cammie was staying behind—it was always a cause for a struggle for his parents to meet Joe, unknowing that the cause for conflicts in schedule was due to their granddaughter.

"When is it?" Joe inquired, pursing his lips.

"After the fourth of July, since I know you're booked for that weekend."

He rubbed the back of his neck and nodded slowly. "Yeah, sure. Tell your parents that I'm excited for another trip."

Matt grinned and gave his friend an immature punch on the arm. "Great. I'll let them know."

Joe and Abby trekked out of the Morgan's innocent looking suburban home. For all intents and purposes, it was owned by the very boring and very ordinary Jones family. He always snorted when he thought of Matt's choice in surname—he was a diehard Indiana Jones fan at heart, and practically a fanboy when it came to the comic festivals they attended in their much more daring and foolish years as twenty year-olds.

"So, I forgot that Matt picked me up from the airport this morning. My car's at home and I _sort of_ need a ride..." Abby twirled a lock of hair around her finger and stared up at him impishly.

Joe was slowly starting to lose control and scowled dejectedly. "Get in the car, Abigail."

His list of bad decisions was getting very long.

"Will you please remind me why we decided to stop doing this three years ago?" Abby inquired an hour later, her chest heaving.

Joe rubbed a hand over his face and squinted at the time on the digital clock on her nightstand. "Because you decided I was an interesting person outside of bed?"

She snorted. "Maybe it was how you were scared shitless that Rachel would find out that you were using me for sex."

He turned to her with an indignant frown. "I think it was the other way around, Abby."

One corner of her mouth tugged upwards. "I think you might be right." Despite his words, she rolled right on top of him. "I promise I won't tell Rachel. No jokes like tonight?"

He narrowed his eyes, dubious. "You have a big mouth."

She made a motion over her chest with her finger and grinned when his gaze followed it. "Cross my heart and hope to die," she said earnestly.

His was fiddling with her hair the same way he used to a handful of years ago. He sighed reluctantly, as if his male hormones weren't telling a very different story.

And he tacked on yet another thing to his list of very bad decisions.

* * *

"This is not going well," Cara said in a singsong voice under her breath. "How mad do you think the CIA will be if I shoot the wrong guy?"

Joe snorted at the words crackling through his comms unit. "I think the real question is, how mad will Edwards be?"

She followed his movements through the scope of her weapon and laughed. "You'd better check your five o'clock, Bond. A guard is sniffing around the drivers, and by the looks of it, asking for identification." She heard him sigh as he evaded confrontation by busying himself with his phone, as a bulky man walked past the vehicle without a second glance. "When the hell is he going to get out of that car?"

He glanced through his rearview mirror as someone ducked out of the hotel with a black umbrella low over his head. He noticed two things: one, it wasn't raining and two, the motel was slowly darkening as lights were flicked off.

"Unless the meeting is _the car_ ," he grumbled. "No one is getting in and out of that vehicle. Forget about this mission. The only obtainable thing here is that bodyguard off to the left. He's the one that's been tailing me, but I doubt we'll be able to nab him."

Her eyes landed on a group of men glancing at the shiny vehicles surreptitiously from around the corner of the building. She couldn't see much in the dark, not even with her scope, but she was almost positive that they had weapons.

"Quick," she hissed. "Roll down your windows and get mugged."

Joe look up at the building she was perched on as if she was out of his mind, and he told her precisely that. "Are you out of your fucking mind?" he hissed, but unlocked the cars and rolled down his window anyway, practically advertising his fancy watch.

His head cracked against the pavement a moment later.

He felt someone kick his abdomen and roughly peel the watch off his wrist, then snag his wallet and the keys to the car. A man with a hocket mask concealing his face punched him in the jaw for good measure. He was perfectly capable of taking all of them down at once, yet took heed of one of the biggest rules: know when _not_ to fight back. Just as anticipated, the guards surged forward to mediate the tussle—which was also when the doors to the meeting car opened and Haber peeked his head out.

A crack echoed through the air and Mr. Haber was nothing but a limp body on the pavement, lying in his own blood. That first shot sent off a flurry of several more as fire was exchanged betweened seasoned bodyguards and unruly streetfighters. Ducked low against the pavement, he practically crawled to the second car. The driver was absolutely petrified and scrambled out after just a glower from Joe—with blood running into his eyes, bruises on his chin, and the fierceness his emerald eyes expressed, he was sure that he looked terrifying. He locked the Plexiglas window separating him from Schmidt in the back, rolled over tall men in black suits unabashedly, and peeled out of the crime scene.

The car squealed to a stop for someone to climb into the back with David, which is when he realized that he _wasn't_ being transported by his own men.

First he tried to be gracious. "Thank you so very much for saving me from that nasty situation back there. You know how it is in these types of neighborhoods." When he recieved no answer from the woman across him, he moved to pull the phone out of his pocket. "I'm going to notify my people that—"

Cara picked up a satchel off the ground and drummed her fingers against the sniper gun inside. His eyes fell on the ajar zipper and he paled, sweat beginning to dampen his blond hair.

"I assure you, you have the wrong person. I was just here for dinner. If you need me to wire you money, then I'll give you all the funds—"

There were only two seats in the car, a spacious area, an ottoman with slots to hold bottles, and a little machine for drinks. Cara kicked her feet onto the ottoman. "We don't need your money, but I appreciate the thought nonetheless."

David's mind whirled and he snarled. "Which one? CIA, FBI, Interpol..." he prattled.

Joe snorted. "Did he finally catch on, Duchess?"

The man's head whipped to attention at the familiar voice. "I think he has, Bond," Cara replied.

"Do you know who the man you're working with really is?" he gritted, his wild gaze landing on the opened window through which Joe sent a glance. "You are extremely disillusioned if you think this bastard will remain loyal."

They stopped in front of a warehouse and Cara smiled in satisfaction when she accomplished her task. He had been so busy, trying to bribe his way out, that he neglected to keep track of the direction the car was moving in. Judging by the dread on his face, he realized, too.

"Out," she said, pointing at the door.

It was a combination of self-preservation and anger over the fact that a _woman_ was giving him orders that led to David swiftly dropping the façade of fear. He lunged forward and grabbed the rifle before Cara could beat him to it, slammed her backwards and held the weapon at her neck in a chokehold. Her face reddened and she tried to use her legs to propel him backwards—but at the end of the day, he was still the son of a Blackthorne alum and a member of the Circle, and to him, there was no shame to playing outside the rulebooks.

Cara's face was quickly transitioning from red to purple, her lips tinting blue as she gasped for hair and kicked him. However, he had cleverly pinned her against one of the passenger doors and she was trapped. She felt blood drip onto her temple when he cracked her head against the window.

Suddenly, a hand reached forward and grabbed his collar, yanking him backwards. In a swift motion, Joe grasped the gun and reversed their positions, until David was finally weakened enough to give hin the leverage to knock him out cold with a firm punch.

The woman was on all fours, palms against the carpeted floor of the vehicle as her chest heaved in an attempt to catch her breath. The black dots that had been dancing at the edges of her vision slowly ebbed away. Joe roughly dragged their target onto the pavement, stepped over him and ducked into the back to offer her a hand.

She offered a smile that came out more like a grimace and took it with a surprisingly firm grip. "About damn time, Solomon," she said, her voice raspy.

He raised an eyebrow, incredulous that she had the willpower to crack a joke. "You need to stop leaving your guns lying around like that." With a crooked grin, he added, "You might also want to brush up on hand-to-hand combat. The Circle has it's own twisted versions of martial arts."

Cara stared down at the man, and shamelessly stepped on his head as she moved to punch in a code onto the keypad of the warehouse. "Well, then, it looks like you're the best person to ask for lessons."

There was a brief pause, in which she wondered if her remark was ill-placed, but Joe finally broke the tense air with a chuckle.

"Convienent, that the CIA has an interrogation room in the heart of New York," he remarked, looking around the familar room that he had used several times before. A mission with Matt from their early years popped into mind, and he had to suppress a grin at the memory of the man refusing their superiors and flipping the table of tools in a brave—and incredibly stupid—display of dissent.

Matthew Morgan was too pure for the world. Which was probably why they were placed on probation and assigned the agency's dirty work as punishment.

Once David Schmidt had been chained with an adequete amount of ropes and handcuffs, Cara watched him with her hands on her hips. "I didn't mean to kill Haber, you know. The Circle and the CIA are going to be pretty damn pissed."

Joe snorted. "Not to mention Edwards. I'm sure they'll come up with something dramatic," he mused. " _Famous billionaire art vendor caught in the crosshairs of a gang brawl in the middle of Bronx_. How does that sound?"

"Sounds like my pay getting docked a couple grand."

"And your face getting pinned to the corkboard of Circle targets. Welcome to the club, Pierce."

She shook her head. "One year ago, I was getting a call in Slovenia about some big case to frame a hot-shot in the CIA. Now, I'm standing with him and exchanging jokes."

He nodded solemnly. "That sounds accurate. Don't forget the part about stripping down in the same changing room in London."

Cara stared at him and blinked, not believing that _Joe Solomon_ of all people had the capacity to make light of the serious and angry situation they had been in only a few months ago. She almost felt guilty for being bribed into promises of a new and reformed career after catching him in a honeypot.

Almost.

Regardless, it was her resentment for Edwards' roboticness that had her discreetly dropping the recording device behind her back and crushing it with the heel of her boot.

"Should we wake him up?" Joe suggested, already reaching for a shock device. With her affirming nod, he jabbed it into the man's side.

He shot awake, a wild look in his eyes as he looked around, confused, until realization dawned on him and he glowered at the two spies with deep-rooted resentment. "You can't break me," he insisted, head tilted high in arrogance, though his gaze flickered to the object in Joe's hands with apprehension. "You're forgetting who I have been trained by."

There was the loud sound of latex gloves slapping onto skin as Cara pulled them on. She exchanged a glance with Joe, her fingers dancing over metal knives.

And so it began.


	12. Chapter 12

**AN** : Just so you get an idea of how much prewriting I did (for the first time in my life, may I add), at the time this chapter is being written, chapter six has only just been posted. Read and review, folks!

 **CHAPTER TWELVE**

The nightmares were relentless that evening.

Though Matt hid it well, Joe knew that he had awakened him an insurmountable number of times when they were younger with his own screams and sleep-talking. He often wondered what he said in his sleep—which secrets he spilled that he normally kept contained within himself. That night, however, he didn't dream of the missions the Circle sent him on. He didn't watch his loved ones die, see Cammie get ripped from her parents arms, feel the heat of the flames that consumed his safehouse. No, this time, he dreamt of David Schmidt's screams.

There was a reason that information extraction was among the most sensitively taught topics at all the agencies, particularly torture. Blackthorne's training consisted of forcing its students to bury their emotions deep down, while the Circle encouraged any type of inhumane behavior. While in real life, he always had Matt, Rachel, or Abby to reel him back in, nothing saved him from his own mind.

At the end of their exhausting three-hour ordeal, David had been bloody.

Yet he kept his lips sealed, firm in his loyalty to the Circle. However, he didn't spare a single chance to spite Joe or curse him vehemently. Joe knew that he didn't have immediate immunity when it came down to Cara's awareness of his origins, but it made David's attempts to sway her futile.

Of course, that didn't stop the occasional flickers of judgement in her eyes—hints of horror, disgust, and disbelief that were hidden well.

His biggest enemy wasn't the arm's dealer in Brazil, the Russian double-agents in the States, or even the Circle of Cavan. His biggest enemy was his own mind, and the way it pulled him into the abyss of regret and violent memories.

There was screaming and yelling, cursing and pleading. Soon enough, his dreams exchanged him for David and he could feel every pierce of a knife, punch, or electric shock surge through his body. The faces of his victims and the people he had killed floated through his vision, and he could feel the same interrogation tactics as when he was first captured following his escape burn through his flesh.

No one simply _left_ the Circle. And his nightmares reminded him of it everyday, repeatedly illustrating the danger he was placing his loved ones in.

His brain plunged into darkness until all he could hear were the screams of Cammie Morgan, the innocent eight year-old girl dragged into a deadly affair by her father's best friend. He was running, pushing his body to the limit as he stumbled through the black—until there was a final cry, eery silence, and he started awake.

Joe rubbed his face and shot upwards into a seating position, soft hotel blankets pooled at his waist. He groaned, and dropped his head into his hands, squeezing his eyes shut. His temples were throbbing, eyes burning, and body tense from a restless few hours of sleep. Judging by the soreness in his throat, he had been talking in his sleep again as well.

He stripped off his sweat-soaked cotton shirt, swung his legs over the edge of the bed and glanced at the time. It was only three in the morning, but the likelihood of him getting anymore sleep was unlikely. He wasn't sure he wanted to try either; after a stressful few days, his biggest dread was always what came when he shut his eyes. After grabbing a change of clothes, he blindly walked through the room to the bathroom, flicking the lights on.

The reflection that looked back at him was defeated—dark circles around his eyes, emerald irises dulled to an empty green. His shoulders were slumped, hair matted to his head with sweat and a five o'clock shadow forming on his face. With a hate-filled glance at his appearance, he turned the shower to a scalding temperature and allowed the burning droplets of water pelt his back... sliding over scars, burns, and cuts that not even years of age could fully heal.

Time didn't mend people like him. It left stark reminders in the form of white, jagged lines stretching across tan skin.

Though it was barely four, he pulled on his clothes and prepared himself for that morning's departure. As his mind whirled, trying to block out remnants of his nightmare, the walls of the hotel room seemed stifling. The CIA wasn't swimming in money, but it treated its agents well enough—yet for some reason, despite his training, it was as if it was closing in on him. He ran his fingers through his damp hair, droplets of water rolling down the nape of his neck, and opened the door. Each floor of the hotel had a small balcony at the end of the hallway. When he saw it was occupied, however, he raised his eyebrows in surprise.

He saw her turn her head slightly, though she didn't meet his gaze. She hadn't looked at him _at all_ following the interrogation, and he wasn't sure if it was because of her discomfort with his actions, or her own.

The way an unfeeling mask went over her face when she sent the first blow reminded him too much of the Circle.

Her hands were curled around the railing of the balcony in a white-knuckled grip as if she were holding on for dear life, and she was dressed in a comfortable pair of grey slacks and a white blouse tucked in at the waist. "Were you planning on leaving me behind?" she said lightheartedly, though her expression didn't mirror her easygoing words.

Joe chuckled. "You're the one in a pantsuit. You tell me," he replied, shoving his hands in the pockets of his trousers. He leaned back on the railing so the inside of the hotel was in front of him, and his back was to the cityscape outside.

There was a long pause, before her voice broke the silence. "You have them, too, don't you?" she inquired.

She didn't specify what _them_ was, but he knew. He idly wondered if she'd heard him from her adjacent room, and pursed his lips. "Considering my previous line of work, I'd be concerned if I didn't." He furrowed his eyebrows. "You?"

Cara turned his way fully and their eyes met for a brief moment. He saw that she looked just as haggard and tired as he did, dark circles under her grey eyes. She hummed under her breath. "I have a lot of blood on my hands. I'd be concerned if I didn't either."

"Penance," he muttered under his breath.

She repeated the word, albeit louder, in agreement. "At least this mission is over. One year of chasing him around and following false leads, and we also took out a poison junkie."

He nodded in agreement. "Something tells me that Schmidt has more than one trick up his sleeve," he said. "There's always a way out. We just need to find them before he does and block the leaks."

Cara rolled her shoulders in a shrug. "I'm sure the agency will have him under lockdown. There won't be a way for him to get out, or try anything remotely illegal." When he didn't reply, she looked over at him, apprehension in her eyes. "...right?"

"Not even the CIA is immune," he said, the implications of his words hanging heavy in the air. "You'd be surprised how successful a terrorist organization like the Circle can be when they have moles in all the right places."

Cara wrapped her arms around herself. "They're transporting him to a secure facility come morning. He will go through interrogation, and then be charged in the secret courts." She pursed her lips. "If what you said about moles is true, then I doubt he'll open his mouth and sell you out."

Joe chuckled dryly. "I wouldn't count on it."

"Oh, I would," she said. "I'm entitled to an hour with him before the hearing and will personally ensure that he doesn't." And despite her mission, she knew that she meant it. There was no way that Schmidt could unmask Solomon without sending mayhem through the agency. Edwards, on the other hand, would need substantial convincing to reign in his anger and eagerness.

He grunted, doubtful, but let her try to assure him anyway. "Hopefully that'll be an end to the bugs," he chuckled, and she laughed softly. "But regardless, I hope you know that you did the right thing." He was cautious with his words, and danced around the conversation they had in the basement of Imperial College. "If I knew that there was someone working alongside me for the United States government with a particularly dirty past, I would go out of my way to expose their true colors, too."

"Except you wouldn't work with someone that had a personal vendetta against that particular person," she said teasingly, but her mood sobered considerably. "You're not the bad guy. I get that. But I still can't wrap my head around this... _group_ that exists right under the nose of the agency in such deep cover, that no one even knows it _exists_."

"They know," Joe said softly. "Someone always knows."

Cara's lips set in a frown and she nodded in acceptance. She glanced at the time on her phone—they had been standing out on the balcony for an entire hour—and sighed. "I guess this is it, Solomon," she said. "My flight leaves an hour before yours does."

His mouth quirked upwards. "You know, you still didn't return my jacket..."

She grinned, shaking her head in disbelief. "Well, dammit, I completely forgot about that thing. You probably want it back, don't you?"

"It has sentimental value," he said, his emerald eyes lighting up teasingly. "Maybe even more so, now."

To his surprise, her arms went around him in a hug that he reciprocated without a moment of hesitation. Her curly black locks covered his face and enveloped him with the scent of the hotel's brand of shampoo. "Hypothetically speaking, if I were to be visiting my alma mater this fall, would I be able to drop off that coat?"

He chuckled. "Hypothetically speaking, yes, you would."

Cara stepped away, her cheeks flushed slightly. She turned around, her hair whipping around her head and falling over her shoulders in natural waves. "Take care, 007," she said, saluting him playfully. "And keep the beard. I like it."

Joe ran a hand over the heavy stubble along his jawline—a product of sleepless nights, lack of relaxation, and stressful missions—and grinned.

* * *

"Sweetie, you didn't take any potatoes." The original Mrs. Morgan gave Joe a disdainful frown, and began forcefully spooning more food on his plate. "Or any greens. You two haven't changed a bit in the last twelve years."

Abby swirled the gravy around in her rice and snorted into her food, sobering when the older woman shot her a glower.

"Did I hear something, Abigail?"

"No, ma'am," she said earnestly, kicking Matt under the table when he grinned.

"Good. Now take some more chicken. You're too thin! You need to build some muscle and widen your hips." Abby's smirk at the first part of the woman's statement morphed into shock as her jaw dropped and she watched the boys snicker. Little did Matt's mother know, she was more muscular than the average man—her slimmed looks were extremely deceiving.

Regardless, she thought, _widening her hips_ was the least of her worries... though she took more food to appease her sister's mother-in-law.

The grey-haired man at the head of the table shook his head, though he gave a hearty chuckle. "Leave the poor woman alone, Susan. This is why Rachel doesn't bring Cameron anymore."

Matt opened his mouth to protest and defend his wife, but his father sent him a good-natured wink. "So, Joseph," he drawled, his Midwestern accent thick. "How has work been, son? I'm sure even a desk job at the CIA has some excitement."

Joe shrugged. "It's picking up speed, ever since they got Homeland running."

Seeing as he wasn't going to offer any more information, Andrew Morgan nodded slowly. "Good, good," he rumbled. "Matt, after dinner, the cows and horses are gonna be waitin' on you."

Matt shot a scowl when Joe snickered, until Susan finally took a seat and clasped her hands. "Joe, why don't you lend him a hand? I'm sure you boys will enjoy the bonding time."

Abby snorted and dutifully carried her dishes to the sink, before she was assigned the laborous task of late-night manure shoveling.

As expected, Joe fulfilled his role as the spectator while sweat poured down Matt's neck as he hauled buckets of waste from the fields onto the back of a pickup truck.

"What the hell is it with you and flannels?" Joe grumbled, pinching the button-down that he'd borrowed. He leaned against the rear of the vehicle near the floodlight they'd propped on the ground, scrunching his nose at the typical farm stench. Even after years of coming down to his friend's childhood home, he would never get used to their gritty lifestyle.

"Why are you complaining when you came begging for a change of clothes?"

"I didn't _beg_. I just forgot to pack clothing that I wouldn't mind smelling like horses."

Matt sighed dramatically, sticking his shovel in a bucket and leaning on it. "Spoken like a true city kid."

"I'm not the one talking like a hillbilly," Joe said, mocking his friend's strong, Nebraskan accent.

"You're a piece of shit, Solomon."

"Yeah? And you're covered in it."

The two stared at each other in a brief burst of ridiculous, masculine anger, before their façades broke and their scowls morphed into identical grins. Matt hauled a few buckets filled with foul smelling manure into the back of the rusty pick-up truck, ans Joe rolled up the sleeves of his flannel to help him.

"You never told me how your mission last week went," he said casually, casting his friend a glance out of the corner of his eye. "Or is that classified?"

Joe snorted. "Theoretically, it is, but considering the fact that it involved Circle business, I'll make an exception." He disconnected the floodlight from the vehicle, plunging them into darkness, and closed the hatch after tossing it in alongside their tools. "We ran into a bump along the road when Cara accidentally shot the wrong man."

Matt rose his eyebrows, perplexed. Katherine Pierce didn't seem like the type of agent to lose control, but rather a person that made very deliberate mistakes. "Accidentally?"

"The Director sent down one of his men to communicate exactly how furious he was, so yes, it was an actual accident." He paused. "We hauled Schmidt's ass to that compound right outside of the Bronx, in Brooklyn."

Matt slid into the driver's seat and the door sqeaked loudly as he shut it. He slammed the steering wheel when the engine sputtered. "Goddamn piece of junk," he muttered under his breath. "The one where I received my first CIA santioned grounding?"

Joe chuckled, and then grabbed onto a handlebar as the truck rolled roughly along the pastures. "That one. Cara gave him a hell of a beating."

"Is that so?" his friend said slowly, contemplating that particular piece of information.

Joe sighed, recognizing his tone. "I didn't wake up screaming, if that's what you're hinting at," he lied—or rather, withheld. "Give me some credit, Morgan."

He shrugged, refraining from commenting further. "Well, at least you know what her weak spot is," he said decidedly.

Joe furrowed his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

As they approached the barn, Matt shifted the gear in park and looked him in the eye. "No one goes into those interrogations and comes out without at least a few scars in their mind."

"Unless you're a deranged lunatic." Joe paused. "Not that I'm saying she is, but that is a possibility, considering her relationship with Edwards."

Matt hopped out of the truck and pulled on gloves, preparing for at least an hour of tediously unloading the bed of the vehicle. "Have you read the transcripts of her counseling sessions?"

"Matt, that's got to be overstepping some sort of line—"

In the dim lighting outside, he saw his brown eyes focus on him with a sharp stare. "And her helping Max dig into your past isn't?"

"I never said it wasn't."

"Then what the hell do you call what she was doing? She has some nerve, going on these missions with you. If she was right in the head, she would withdraw her name—"

"What kind of agent withdraws their name over something like this?"

"A decent one!"

"I don't want to argue with you, Matt—"

A loud creak. "Everything alright, boys?"

The fact that Susan Morgan, and elderly mother and grandmother that knew nothing of her son's profession had the skill to sneak up on them so quietly said a lot about how engrossed they were in their argument. She stood on the long pathway that led from the house to the barn, dressed in a night gown. Behind her, Abby stood on her toes to look fully over the woman's head, making a sharp motion with her hand for them to make an excuse— _fast_.

"Just stupid office politics," Joe said tightly.

The woman wrapped her shawl around herself and nodded slowly, clearly unconvinced. "I knew the CIA has some dirt cookin' behind those glass doors. I was wonderin' what was takin' you two so long."

"Told you they were fine," Abby said, settling a comforting hand on Susan's arm. "I bet it only took so long because Joe's just as useless as city boys come."

Joe glared at her. "Tell me again, why we brought you along?"

"Oh, don't be like that, sweetheart," Susan admonished. "Abigail is a darling. I was telling her about how many times I found you boys covered head-to-toe in dung, after one of your fights. I figured you must have gone back to your own ways when I heard yelling."

"It wasn't yelling," Matt said quickly. At his mother's dubious frown, he clarified himself. "It was... loud discussion."

Abby snorted, sniffed the air and pinched her nose. "Well, hurry up with your _loud disccusion_ and come inside. You smell like _ass._ "

Susan gasped. "Abigail! _Language_ —"


	13. Chapter 13

**AN** : I think we might have reached the halfway marker... I apologize for the late update, as things are very busy right now. I am getting back in the groove of things and hope to be posting a bit more often, like my previous schedule. Enjoy, read, and review!

 **CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

"Do you have any laundry that needs to be done?" Susan set down a sizzling plate of fried eggs and crossed her arms over her chest, clad in a floral apron and flowing yellow dress. "I could pop in a load real quick, while you boys finish eatin' and packin' your things."

Abby sauntered downstairs and into the kitchen, setting her suitcase down in the threshold. "I don't think Matty will. He has a wife for that, doesn't he?" she winked, and pecked the woman's weathered cheek in greeting.

While her son harrumphed, Susan trained her attention to the other man in the room. "What about you, Joseph? Any lady doin' the laundry for you in Roseville?"

Matt snorted into his mug of coffee. "Oh, no. He doesn't have time for women, so he does his laundry on his own and tucks in his sheets as if he's in the Air Force."

"Are you lot bothering Solomon again?" Andrew said gruffly, strolling through the side door with a gift bag in hand and a newspaper tucked under his arm. He dropped the sparkling paperbag at Matt's feet. "That's for Cammie. Give my love."

Matt groaned. "Oh, come on, Dad. She's practically a spoiled brat as is, with her aunt smuggling things in."

Abby broke away from fixing herself a plate and wagged her finger at her brother-in-law. "Don't you talk about my niece that way, Mister."

Andrew took his seat at the head of the table, unfolding his paper and turning to the daily crossword. While he shoveled in forkfulls of scrambled eggs with one hand, he made quick work of the puzzle with the other. "Oh, I forgot—" he said suddenly, peering over his reading glasses. "There was an envelope taped to the door that I tossed into that bag. It didn't have an address, but it was written to Joe."

Matt furrowed his eyebrows and fished out a large, yellow envelope. In the middle, with a messy scrawl in capitals, was written, " _JOSEPH SOLOMON, CONFIDENTIAL._ "

"That looks like something work related," Joe muttered, though he unwound the string and unfastened the metal clasp. Though the couple was trying to hide it, Susan paused from her eating every so often and Andrew glanced up from his newspaper in curiosity.

Abby peered over his shoulder and stared at the cover sheet. " _The Kremlin Letter_. That's an odd name for an assignment," she muttered.

Joe recognized the movie title instantly and pursed his lips, trying to shove the papers back into the envelope. However, Matt leaned across the table and snatched it.

"Matthew Andrew Morgan!" Susan scolded, mortified with her son's behavior.

Joe groaned. "It says 'confidential,' you ass—"

Matt flipped to the last page where he knew he would find an official signed declaration by Joe's partner, if he had one. He wasn't surprised when he saw Cara's signature at the bottom of the page, accepting the mission. His brown eyes fixed on the man across from the table in a glower.

"You're taking it, I presume," Matt grunted, tossing the papers back in disgust.

Ever the opportunist, Abby grabbed them and her eyes widened as she took in the contents. "You really need to make up your mind whether or not you hate her, Solomon."

When Joe ignored them, Andrew's gaze flickered to the three guests. "Office politics?" he assumed, arching an eyebrow.

He groaned, and rose from his seat to rinse his empty plate in the sink. Susan must have informed her husband of the previous night's events. "Yep," he said, leaning down to set his cutlery in the dishwasher. "I'm going to load the suitcases in the car. The parking garage wants their rental back an hour before the flight, and I don't want to be in a rush later."

Abby delicately wiped her mouth with her napkin, clearing her throat to break the silence when he departed. "I'll go help him," she muttered, leaving her sister's husband at the mercy of his parents.

She lugged the suitcase she had set down earlier behind her, not surprised to find him sitting in the back of the open trunk of their minivan with the envelope in his hands. She raised her eyebrows when she saw a majority of their bags already piled into the back of the vehicle.

"Should I be offended you didn't put my suitcase in, too?" she remarked, dropping the item in question onto the gravel driveway.

"Matt and I were awake before you were. Besides, you take forever to blow-dry your hair and I wasn't in the mood to wait."

She sighed. "Chivalry is dead."

He didn't reply, and Abby frowned. He was dressed in his customary slacks and formal shirt, made much more casual with the sleeves rolled up and a few extra buttons popped open. His green eyes were trained on the envelope as he silently brooded, though she knew he was aware of her staring.

As if reading her mind, he exhaled dramatically. "Spit it out, Cameron."

"Contrary to popular belief, I am capable of reanalyzing my friendships and reconsidering them if I believe they hold a viable threat against my family," she said, her tone cautious. "And I think you're smart enough to look past certain things and make decisions for yourself, too."

Joe blinked at her, the corner of his mouth tilting upwards slightly. "I'm glad you've realized that. I'm thirty-one years old, after all."

Abby snorted, and leaned against the bumper. "So if you're going to take this mission, know that there's one person here that is confident that you know what you're doing." She pursed her lips. "Matt would throw himself off a cliff if it meant keeping you alive. He has a habit of going overboard."

"And I would do the same. But none of you saw what I did on that last mission, nor do any of you know Max Edwards like I do. I have this under control," he said firmly.

She cocked a hip, a hand settling on her waist as she considered him. "I'm on your side, Solomon. And remember, I was the first to say I believed you."

Joe rolled his eyes, grinned crookedly and bent down to pick up her things. "I knew it. You have a bet going with Rachel, don't you?"

Abby threw back her head and laughed. "Rachel has a hundred fifty on the table if things go badly. I get double if they don't." She tilted her head, her dark hair falling on one side of her face, and eyed him as he rearranged her belongings to fit in the trunk.

"You know what, Solomon? Maybe chivalry isn't dead after all."

* * *

Hampstead never came.

That was all she could think of, sitting at Maxwell's kitchen table. She drummed her fingers against the stained wood, staring down at the bags of take-out he had set in front of her, before vanishing to the bathroom to wash up. She had returned from Paris only a few hours ago, exhausted from her mission and traveling, while he had been holed up in his office for days. There was no sense of home when she arrived at his apartment, and she felt uncomfortable, as if intruding on a stranger's personal space.

He reappeared after a few minutes, hair damp from a shower, clad in jeans and a cotton tee. He furrowed his eyebrows, glancing between her and their dinner, and took his seat next to her. He remained silent for a moment, waiting for her to initiate conversation, but concluded that tonight was one of _those_ nights.

"You didn't start eating?" he inquired, pulling the styrofoam containers of Thai food.

She rubbed the bleariness out of her eyes and silently took her serving, twirling noodles with her fork. "How was work?"

"Good. We're having a hard time, considering Homeland Security is a new player in the field, so Interpol's trying to penetrate their systems and get an idea of how they function." He watched her take a bite out of a spring roll and waited until she was finished chewing before he asked, "How was the Paris op?"

She offered nothing more than an one-shouldered shrug, eyes downcast as she ate.

To her surprise, he put down his plastic cutlery and took her left hand. "Cara," he said, pulling her out of her thoughts. "Are you alright?"

His tone held an uncharacteristic tenderness that angered and comforted her all at once. She shook her head, pulled away, and closed her container of food.

"No. I'm feeling nauseous. I'm going to get changed and go to bed, okay?"

She watched his gaze slide to the clock—it was only seven in the evening—and he gave a slow nod. "I'll bring you a cup of tea," he offered.

Cara noiselessly got out of her chair and padded barefoot to their room. Everything had her on edge, from the electrical outlets to the potted plants. She felt like even her smallest movements were being watched. Max was an observant man—there was no doubt, considering his position in Interpol—but the fact that his skills were being used on _her_ made her feel anxious. Her privacy was being annihilated; she had no rights, as if she were a criminal, caught in the warfare between the man and Joe Solomon.

She needed a way out, before Max decided he wasn't feeling friendly anymore and turned his attention to her. The excitement and romance of the beginning of their relationship had died, and she had quickly unearthed his motives. He had never said it out loud, nor would he ever admit it. No matter how much take-out, roses, and tea he showered her with, his actions were empty of affection, his façade slowly fading away. She was his pawn, and keeping her in his bed was his way of communicating that he was the one in control.

Her heart had nearly burst out of her chest when she commissioned the private assignment and sent it to Joe. There was no way she would be able to have a breath of air, alone, as long as she was home. She needed an assignment, something that Max would not be able to discover. He had eyes everywhere, and she had taken drastic measures to make sure she was safe.

Despite the fact that she heard him coming, she nearly jumped out of her skin when his arms wrapped around her from behind. His hands were creeping under her shirt, and goosebumps rippled over her skin. She did not want to be touched, but moving away would send off one of his many alarms.

"The tea is on the stove," he told her, his voice thick with his accent, husky and tired. "Do you want to tell me what's going on?"

The floor length mirror was to their right and she knew he was watching her change in facial expression. She gripped the footboard of the bed and shrugged. "I think I'm coming down with something," she shrugged. "Stress, maybe."

He hummed under his breath as he mulled over her words. "You should take a few days off. The constant traveling is getting to you," he suggested.

Cara resisted the urge to grit her teeth and shove him off. She _did not_ want that. "No, I have to head to Gallagher in a few days for their career fair—"

"Oh, that stupid thing," he chuckled. "I was going to skip this year, but if you're going—"

She shook her head and turned around, looking him in the eye. "I have a meeting with Headmistress Williams, too. I'll be swamped the entire time."

Max raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?" he said, his fingers drumming against her lower back. He sounded skeptical, the glimmer in his eyes revealing his thoughts. "In that case, I'll meet you at home."

She kept her facial features neutral, and unimpressed. "Something about a job, I think," she told him. It wasn't a complete lie and he could've asked the Headmistress himself if he wanted to; the woman had proposed a job, and Cara was planning on inquiring about the offer to create a cover story for herself.

He seemed reasonably surprised and accepted her answer. "After the Solomon mission, I hope," he said, ignoring the whistle of the kettle behind them. " _Then_ you can join their pretentious ranks."

Cara rolled her eyes and nudged his chest, pretending to be amused by his reminder. "Of _course_. Now, go get me some tea, Edwards. It better not be too sweet."

He chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to her lips and releasing her. She turned around and gripped the wooden bed, exhaling in relief, her shoulders taut with tension.

When he returned with a mug of steaming Earl Grey, she caught the distinct, syrupy sweet scent of truth serum. She put it down and waited for him to slip into bed, her mind whirling as she tried to improvise. She reached for him, her hand sliding behind his neck and pulling him towards her, melding her mouth against his.

After all, sex was the best kind of distraction.

* * *

Every profession had its tools. Mathematicians had their calculators and compasses, writers had their books and pens, doctors had their prescription pads and stethoscopes. However, when it came down to stealing some of the world's most renowned works of art, a thief's toolkit was relatively simple.

The items were wrapped cleverly in a special fabric, blocking the attention of metal detectors, and fit easily into a small satchel. There was a set of knives, varying in sharpness and blade length. A ring of lock picks, ideal for every kind of lock that existed in the universe. A flash drive loaded with various programs to override safety measures and loop cameras. A bottle of breath freshener filled with toxic liquid, enough to knock someone out for a few hours. Magnifying glasses, fingerprint replicators, leather gloves and a simple surgical mask.

And then there was the extremely vital communication device, a flesh colored piece of technology tucked inside the left ear, barely noticeable. It was key, connecting the thief to the outside world, providing eyes to what happened beyond the galleries of priceless art.

When it came down to show time, heists were so incredibly simple that authorities often scratched their heads and wondered how they missed them. Interpol, CIA, and other international organizations reveled at the fact that they could not crack basic cases, despite their complex expertise. Security guards remained horrified and embarrassed, ashamed over the fact that one misplaced glance lost their employers—and the world—million-dollar paintings and relics.

Observation was key. It only took a second. _Carpe diem_ was a professional heister's best friend. Time was the biggest weapon.

One second.

All it took was one second.

Sharp grey eyes flashed from the clock to the painting, and the plan went into motion.

 _Seize the day_.


	14. Chapter 14

**AN:** Fourteeth chapter's the charm, isn't it?

Apologies for the late update. I have NOT abandoned this fic, nor will I ever. Life is busy, and it'll take me a little longer to crank out chapters. Enjoy, and please leave a review.

smileyanne: Most of this fic is in third person, but there will definitely be scenes from Rachel's perspective. Since she's still married to Matt, there won't be any romance with Joe, but once her husband dies, it will set off a reaction and the dominoes will start falling faster for the big Rachel/Joe wedding!

 **CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

Cara emerged from the Headmistress' office after almost an hour of discussion, stunned. When she had walked into the woman's meeting room, she had fully expected to engage in a roundabout conversation, aiming to create an alibi for the occasion that Maxwell decided to investigate. Instead, she was given the news that Rose Williams was retiring within the next four years, and was looking for a successor.

By some miracle of God, one of her topmost candidates was _her_.

There was no way that Cara would take the responsibility of molding hundreds of girls and dozens of generations into the young women of the future. There was too much at stake, and she had too much blood on her hands to be accountable for the lives of so many others. Though she knew her immediate answer, she humored the woman, in constant fear that one wrong word or slip of the tongue would make it back to the people watching her so carefully.

Besides, in case her situation with Maxwell Edwards went severely downhill, she needed a backup plan. Becoming headmistress of a covert, prestigious institution was the best way to ensure her own security.

With a black coat slung over her shoulders, she took a step outside of the school for a breath of air. She was suffocating, burdened by too many secrets, expectations, and drowning under pressures that were a matter of life or death. She could _not_ afford to slip up. She closed her eyes and breathed in the crisp scent of Roseville autumn, savoring the sound of rustling leaves and swirling wind. In that moment, with her feet firmly planted on the brick entrance of the institution, she felt the building's strength flow into her bones.

She was a Gallagher Girl. She was an assassin. There was blood on her hands, endless nightmares in her head, and lies on her tongue, but she would not go down without a fight.

Limousines came through the gates of the academy, several recruiting agents and returning students sliding out. Gallagher took extreme precautions when it came to keeping its building secure, and didn't allow privately owned vehicles inside. She barely paid them mind as they passed her, her eyes fixated on the large iron gates, lost in thought.

She recognized the man that stopped next to her. He tried to follow her line of vision and pinpoint what she was staring at.

"I never knew the lawn was so interesting," he commented, his emerald green eyes glimmering mischievously. "This is oddly therapeutic."

Cara ripped her gaze away from the fence and turned to him. "I have your coat, Bond," she said amusedly.

"I can see that, Duchess," Joe said, his gaze running over her body. She was clad in black heels, fitted pair of leather pants, and a navy blouse with a low neckline. "It looks good on you."

Her lips tilted upwards at the compliment. "You're a lot more dressed up than last time," she commented, glancing at his button-down and slacks.

He snorted, sliding his hands into his pockets. "That's because Abby didn't have to con me into coming this time. I was caught off guard last year."

Cara nodded slowly. "You probably want your coat back."

"You look cold. You should keep it."

"I'm wearing a blazer underneath."

Joe grinned. "You always have an answer, don't you?" he chuckled. "Let's go inside, give it to the doorman, and then decide who takes it home."

She rolled her eyes and followed him. She scanned the expanse of professionals gathering to set up for the career fair, preparing to recruit the next generation. She focused on the Interpol group, yet none of the people that appeared on their behalf were Maxwell.

For a second, she let herself breathe. There was no one there, watching her every move. She was free, in the middle of hundreds of operatives in training and agency persons, even if it were just for a night— _until_ she caught sight of Matthew Morgan. She groaned internally.

"Joe," he said, greeting his friend with a grin. His gaze slid to her, and his pleasure at seeing his Joe seemed to fade. "Agent Pierce."

She bit the inside of her cheek and stiffened. She could feel the man's wife staring at her, and she stood up a little taller, straightening her blazer. She counted her blessings, glad that she had abandoned the coat a few moments earlier.

"Cara," she corrected, sticking her hand out for him to shake.

He considered it for a moment, and looked back at her with an apprehensive expression. "Well," he said, glancing at his glaring friend. "Matt. But you already knew that."

They settled into an awkward silence, unsure how to proceed after their unusual attempt at starting fresh with less hostile introductions. The minute Abigail Cameron was spotted, calling their names and walking forward with two glasses of champagne in her hands, the three of them breathed identical sighs of relief.

"Cara!" She pecked her friend on the cheek, handing her a glass, and narrowed her eyes at the man next to her. " _Joe_. I thought you were too good to hang with Gallagher Girls."

He shrugged, and held himself with a hint of cocky arrogance. "I had a free night, and I was bored. You're my entertainment."

"I guess you still haven't gotten that stick out of your ass." Abby scoffed, and grabbed his hand to deposit the champagne glass into. "Get drunk, mingle with the children, transfer agencies. The alumni dinner is in an hour. These girls are going to knock your socks off, Solomon."

Joe snorted. "It takes a lot to impress me, Abby—"

"Abigail!" A tall man with dark features interrupted their conversation, glowering down at the woman in question. "Whatever happened to getting me some wine? We were in the middle of a conversation and I'm not done—"

She rolled her eyes and towed him away, shooting Cara an impish grin that told her everything she needed to know. "Townsend, dear," Cara heard her say sweetly. "I'm not your maid, jackass."

Matt blinked at his sister-in-law's retreating form. "Is that—"

"Her man of the week? Probably," Cara sighed, and surprisingly, they shared a laugh over the younger Cameron sister's antics. "Your wife is staring you down, Morgan. You might want to stop talking to me."

Matt chuckled, stepping away. "I'll tell her you send your regards."

Joe caught her inspecting the liquid in her glass with a wrinkled nose. He shot her a questioning frown and she smiled wryly.

"People seem to love putting things in my drinks lately," she said. She knew his mind went to the Iceland mission; instead, she was focused on the truth serum that had been poured into her Earl Grey.

Suddenly, she felt someone push past her, jostling her arm despite the fact that there was plenty of room to pass by her in the entrance. Her fingers slipped from the stem of her wine glass and it crashed against the marble floors, effectively catching the attention of every single agent in the foyer _and_ Grand Hall. Joe grabbed her elbow and yanked her away from a different woman that had come forward to take the blame, replacing the culprit like clockwork, apologizing for the mess.

"Oh, I'll take care of that, darling. You go clean up anything that spilled on you—" Madame Dabney came forth, handling the small disruption with grace.

Joe was still gripping her arm. "Give me your blazer," he demanded, his voice barely above a whisper.

Cara stared at him in confusion and stepped away from the mess as Madame Dabney fetched someone to clean the glassware. "What?" she said, confused.

"It was a pass. There's a bug. Give me your blazer and go to the bathroom," he muttered. "It's the agent from Imperial."

She pressed her lips together tightly and slid off the clothing item, handing it to him wordlessly. Her eyes were unreadable and she walked across the foyer, her neck flushing pink as everyone watched her. Angrily, she shut the door of the restroom behind her. She made sure it was empty before locking the door.

Even at the one place where she felt safe, a sanctuary from her teenage years, Edwards had made sure he infiltrated it and kept her under watch. Had it not been for the fact that it was extremely difficult for anything to slip by Joe Solomon, she would have been recorded the entire night, every word sent to her tail in England. She gripped the edge of the sink and stared at herself in the mirror. She felt pathetic; her eyes began to flood with moisture and she blinked away the red tinge. A lump was developing in her throat from a mixture of sheer frustration and exhaustion.

She heard a knock at the door and her knuckles turned white. Rage rushed through her veins. If it was Maxwell's lackey, she knew she wouldn't control herself.

However, the voice that came through belonged to the last person she expected.

"Katherine," Rachel Morgan called. "Open the door."

Cara rubbed a hand over her face, taking three deep breaths. It was all she would give herself, to prevent from breaking down in anger. She rubbed a hand over her face, settled an aloof mask over her features, and flicked the lock.

Rachel was staring at her with a conflicted expression, a mixture of spite and pity. She had her gray blazer in her hands and handed it back. "We have a rotation set," she said simply.

Cara took it and slid it back on, her eyebrows furrowed. "A rotation?"

The woman nodded, tucking a strand of chocolate hair behind her ear. She almost seemed exasperated, as if talking to her was a chore. "Yes. Matt has eyes on everyone from Interpol right now."

Cara was astounded, and couldn't prevent herself from gaping. "You are running interference," she realized. "What—"

"I'm next, and then Abby takes over. This doesn't make us friends, Pierce," Rachel said firmly. Cara had to control the urge to roll her eyes. "But I get it. No one surveils a Gallagher Girl in these walls." Her lips quirked upwards. "Even if she's an assassin with a severely damaged moral compass."

Cara snorted as the woman turned around and departed. She would never understand Rachel Morgan, but she knew that Joe Solomon's group of friends had an unbreakable bond of loyalty. Somehow, her association to the man had inducted her into their circle of protection. As much as she hated to accept favors and the feeling of indebtedness that followed, her heart felt lighter.

Joe fell in step with her as she walked into the Grand Hall. "You must have _really_ pissed your boyfriend off."

She cringed at his choice of words to describe Edwards. "He isn't my boyfriend," she said bitterly.

His eyebrows rose, though his gaze remained fixed on the young women mulling from booth to booth. "Congratulations, Pierce," he said, the corner of his mouth tilting in a smirk. "You're a free woman."

She rolled her eyes. "You know it doesn't work like that," she told him.

"You still need to tell me what's going on. That includes why I received a mission at Matt's _parents'_ house."

Her lips barely moved as she spoke and she watched Rachel cleverly intercept an Interpol agent's path by putting an overly ambitious student in the crossfires. "I needed an excuse to get out, and a fake mission was the only way I could do it," she muttered, reluctant to expose her entire situation to a man that was a former target. "He put a serum in my tea. There were microscopic cameras and microphones in my clothes. Every moment with him was spent being overanalyzed and everything I said was part of some big ploy. My electronics were bugged and someone was following me everywhere."

"You needed an out," he said, and when she looked up at him, his eyes were understanding and kind. "That man is a psychopath."

Cara snorted. "Understatement of the century."

He slid his hands into his pockets and strolled besides her. Though his entire posture was leisurely, she knew he was watching the way every girl moved, whether they remained on guard, and how they handled themselves. And, in the same way, the entire academy of females was watching him.

"Why isn't he here?" he inquired.

"I told him there was an important meeting I had to attend, and that having my boss as my date would compromise things," she said vaguely.

He had the sense not to press her further about her 'meeting', and nodded slowly. His pager made a short beep and he slipped it out of his pocket, squinting at it for a moment. His nostrils flared as he stared at something over her shoulder.

"You need to leave," he muttered. She turned slightly and caught Matthew Morgan conversing with an elderly man in a suit, distracting him and occasionally sending Joe short glances when the man wasn't looking.

Cara recognized the sixty year-old businessman from files Maxwell had given her. "He's from the Circle," she said, understanding. "No one here knows he's from the Circle except you two, right?"

He didn't answer. "Go to a classroom. Go anywhere. You cannot be seen with me, and I'm sure they know by now that you were the one that captured one of their top funders."

When he looked back at her, she had disappeared.

* * *

The first underground level of Gallagher was larger than a football field. It felt incredibly cold, with its frosted glass and metal doors. The area was shockingly modern in contrast to the rest of the institution, which was mostly composed of historic architecture and nineteenth-century structure. Joe strolled through the well-lit hallway, coming to a halt in the threshold of an open classroom.

Cara was running her fingers over the library of films, most likely videos of operations, used to instruct the CoveOps students. A faint smile played at her lips as she looked at the titles, and glanced up when he entered the room.

"I thought I was going to have to camp here tonight," she remarked, crossing her arms over her chest.

He chuckled, mirroring her posture and leaning against the door. "The son of a bitch was looking for me. He left once he realized there was no one of interest here."

She exhaled, and he couldn't tell whether it was relief or humor. "Did you know he's a friend of the headmistress _and_ a school donor?"

Joe nodded grimly and ran his fingers through his dark hair, effectively mussing it. "They know how to work their way in some of the most secure places."

Cara turned away and paused, almost as if she was uncomfortable. He knew exactly what she was thinking—he had done the same as a member of the Circle and became a triple agent, bouncing between the organization, Blackthorne, and the CIA. "Even Fort Knox?" she joked.

His eye crinkled in amusement. "You never know," he mused. When she didn't say anything, he cleared his throat. "The alumni dinner is starting soon. But I have to say... the Sublevels? That's the best you came up with?"

She grinned, her heels clicking against the blindingly white floors as she walked towards the door. "They were my favorite. Especially the third—I _lived_ for those books and guns."

"Of course. The guns," he chuckled.

Cara pressed a palm against a table, leaned against it, and bit her lip as she contemplated her next question. "Do you ever get tired of it?" she asked.

He furrowed his eyebrows. "Of what?"

She shifted her weight, uncomfortable. "Of running. I _hate_ running, but it seems like it's all I've been doing lately. My solution tends to be a lot more simple and _a lot_ quicker."

Joe pushed off the threshold and walked closer so that he could look her in the eye. "You can't kill the entire Circle in a year, Pierce," he chuckled. "It's not running. It's... It's saving the fight for later, when you know you'll win and you're confident you'll take them down." He paused, and rubbed the back of his neck. "And honestly, it's a lot of waiting for the right moment, when you're a hundred percent sure that everyone you love won't get caught in the crosshairs."

She mulled over his words. "I _really_ don't care if Edwards gets caught in the middle," she said, and she caught a hint of laughter flash by Joe's eyes. "Stop it—don't you dare make fun of me, _Bond_."

"You could have picked _anyone_ in the world, and you chose Maxwell-fucking-Edwards—"

"Like you haven't made a few mistakes—"

"None of them resulted in my girlfriend setting up a large-scale surveillance operation!" he grinned, and she grew silent, slumping her shoulders in defeat.

She ran her fingers through her hair and gave an exaggerated sigh. "I can't believe I got myself into this. My life used to be so much more straightforward."

"Well," he said, trying to make light of her grief. "At least you got a nice coat out of it."

Cara made an incredulous sound in the back of her throat and shoved at his chest. To her surprise, he caught her hand and pulled her into him. His eyes searched hers for a brief moment, and when she didn't make a single indication of protest, his head dipped down and his mouth pressed against hers.

His lips moved with hers hungrily, and he hesitated for a brief moment, putting a teasing millimeter of distance between their mouths. Her hand went behind his neck and she pulled him forward. His gripped her lower back, sending an electrifying shiver through her body. She felt herself being pushed to take a step towards the door, took a brief gasp of air, tilting her head as his mouth trailed scalding kisses along her jawline and down her neck.

Suddenly, the cold frosted glass was against her back, his mouth was on hers again, and their bodies were flush together, the hard ridges of his chest crushed against hers. His hands were under her shirt, burning her skin, and she unbuttoned his in near desperation. The elevator beeped loudly and despite the fact that someone was coming, neither of them moved.

"You two have this scary tendency to disappear _all the fucking time._ I swear to God, it's almost as bad as Matt," Abby ranted, her voice echoing down the hall. Both of them knew that the minute she stepped through the door and they separated, it would call for a conversation that neither of them wanted to have. "The dinner is starting and I thought that maybe we could all go to the bar and— _oh._ "

Joe was in no rush and he pulled away slowly, his harsh breathing mingled with her sharp inhales. Both of their mouths were bruised a deep red, clothes creased beyond repair.

"Holy _shit_ , people. What the hell are you doing? I thought the teenagers here were bad!" Abby burst, her eyes comically wide. She turned on them, one by one, and said, " _You_. Button that thing back up. And _you._ Fix your hair and close that blazer so no one sees those wrinkles. For the love of God, please catch your breaths."

Abby's expression was a mix of mischief and exasperation, and under her mothering exterior, she seemed painfully amused. She waited until they obeyed her commands and turned on her heel, her glossy black hair flipping over her shoulder. "Two minutes, people! You have one hundred and twenty seconds before someone gets suspicious!"

Joe stared at her; his emerald green eyes were intense and bore holes, lighting her on fire. He adjusted his collar and she could see him swallow hard. "Not now," he said, almost uncertainly, waiting for her verdict.

Cara ripped her gaze away and nodded, smoothing down her clothing and sliding towards the door. She nodded in agreement.

" _Definitely_ not now."


	15. Chapter 15

**AN:** Holy crap. This is seriously overdue. I had to take a bit of a hiatus and lost all my notes for this story, so getting my bearings again was a HUGE hassle. I apologize for the late update, and I hope this chapter makes up for it. Enjoy this chapter, and please leave a review with any comments or suggestions!

 **CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

Cara quickly learned that being associated with Joe Solomon and his crew of friends had a large amount of danger and drama associated with it. The danger, she could handle, as long as she could survive and compartmentalize it. The drama, however, was another story. The Circle of Cavan was manipulative and constantly evolving, and only the most seasoned of operatives could attempt to bring it down. The process brought an obscene amount of twists and turns—her job as an assassin was a lot more simple, and though she started as a regular CIA operative, she quickly withdrew herself from the impersonal aspect of it. Maybe withdrawing herself wasn't the healthiest thing to do, but it kept her life a lot simpler and straightforward.

The odd thing was, she didn't seem to mind the change.

Her eyes scanned the Grand Hall, her gaze jumping from person to person. Matt and Rachel were immersed in a conversation with the Headmistress, while Abby argued with a tall and handsome man near a table of refreshments. Joe had a painful expression as a young Gallagher Girl with a starry eyed expression question him. He caught her gaze and gave her a smile that was closer to a grimace.

"How do you handle the emotional stress of your job?"

The senior student in front of her was staring expectantly. She had a spiral notepad from the Federal Intelligence Service of Switzerland and a pen from the MI-6 booth. She blinked, taking a moment to process the question, and gave her a vague response, breathing a sigh of relief when she scribbled down a few notes and thanked her. Cara made a move to escape and retreat into one of the alumni lounges for a few drinks, when a new arrival caught her eye.

Max's arm went around her waist and he pulled her into his side. "I thought I'd surprise you, love," he told her, pressing his lips to her temple. "It'd be a waste to miss out on this year's talent."

Cara had to force herself not to tense or look in Joe's direction. Of course. There was no way in hell that Max would let her win this one, especially since she'd dodged some of his best coworkers at Interpol. Her heart fell into the pit of her stomach. She had been glued to a different man only a few moments prior, and that same man was now watching her asshole of a boyfriend flaunting his control over her. She clenched her jaw and kept her voice a low murmur.

"What happened to the honeypot plan?" she mumbled, turning to face him. His arm fell away and he buried his hands into his coat pockets. "That isn't going to work very well with you doing that in the middle of Gallagher."

Max chuckled, his dark eyes regarding her. "Don't worry, Cara. No one hates me more than Joe Solomon. If anything, this will make him think he has the upper hand."

"You're lucky we have a contract," Cara grumbled, watching Joe shift to the Interpol table and converse with an agent. Max took note of his move as well, and furrowed his eyebrows. "Otherwise, I would be doing this entire thing on my own terms."

He snorted. "I know, Cara. That's why we have a contract."

To her disdain, he went straight for the Interpol booth. The students cleared out almost immediately at the sudden number of agents gathering in the area. Cara started forward to mediate, but Abby appeared at her side and looped her arm through hers.

"Speak of the devil, and he shall appear, huh?"

There was a glint in Abby's eye that she didn't really like, and the mischievous shadow to her smirk. "Not a word to anyone, Abigail," she warned.

The youngest Cameron sister feigned locking her lips and throwing the key away. "I've kept more secrets than there are stars, but this is definitely the juiciest piece of gossip. You owe me big time, Pierce."

Cara rolled her eyes. "It was a mistake. That's not going to happen again."

Her friend hummed under her breath amusedly and threw another glance behind them. Max seemed extremely agitated, brows furrowed. Abby let go of Cara's arm and gestured behind them. "Forget about me stopping you. I think it's time you intervene, Pierce."

Cara sighed. One wrong move by Max and her entire operation would crumble to pieces. Joe didn't know Max had her on the honeypot phase of her mission, nor did she want him to, in case her intentions were misconstrued and their kiss was misconstrued. Not that there were any feelings between them, of course—it was the byproduct of too much time together and misinterpreted tensions.

She needed both men to stay clueless. It was the only way she could withdraw herself from the mission and write a substantiated report that proved Joe innocent. Then they could put this entire ordeal behind them: she would break up with Max, escape his manipulation, go back to her career, and hopefully get shipped overseas for a new op.

She caught the tail end of the conversation as she neared. Max had his back to her, and despite catching Joe's eye, he made no indication to the man that they had an extra set of ears.

"—and don't think I won't put the Morgan girl behind bars, too. Be careful where you step, Solomon, because everywhere you look will be a goddamn landmine."

Her eyebrows flicked up and Joe's lips quirked into a satisfied smile when she placed a hand on Max's arm. The man was manipulative and arrogant, but she knew his intentions were in the right place. He saw a threat and he investigated it. However, threatening a little girl's innocence… there were some lines that weren't meant to be crossed.

"Oh, Cara. Just give me a minute," he told her.

She frowned and shook her head. "Max, I think it's time to go."

Her disappointment must have been palpable and threatening. He ceded instantly, throwing one last look at Joe.

"I'll be seeing you, Solomon."

"I wouldn't bet on it, Edwards."

Fortunately, Abby had the tact to keep her suggestive glances internalized as she bid them goodnight. There was a pit in Cara's stomach. Her little moment with Joe definitely wasn't a part of her honeypot mission. She couldn't blame alcohol because neither of them had much in their systems. Frankly, she didn't know what the hell she was doing anymore, which meant a one way road to disaster.

They got into a cab outside Gallagher to take them back to the airport. She didn't say much, mulling over the past few hours, and Max misinterpreted it as anger.

"You're not happy with me," he said, looking at her in the dark car.

Even though his episode wasn't what had been on her mind, she exhaled. "No, I'm not. Going after Joe and the Morgans is one thing, but their daughter? Max, this isn't what we agreed on."

He ran his fingers through his dark hair. "I know. I was… not in the right state of mind."

She snorted. "Yeah, you weren't. You need to let me handle this. I'm not going to frame an innocent man, but you need to know that I'm going to work my ass off to find any existing links between him and the Circle."

Max grunted. "You better look harder. He is a star at Langley for covering his tracks on the job. This isn't any different."

"I _know_ , Max. Let me do my job."

He was quiet for a few moments. "It's only seven. How about we stop for some dinner, a few drinks?"

She gave him a look. "What about our flight?"

"I'll extend my hotel booking and we'll grab the first flight in the morning." He caught the skepticism in her expression. "Come on, Agent Pierce. You aren't going to say no to your handler, are you?"

She smacked his chest. "Don't be an ass, Edwards."

He laughed, putting his arm around her and pulling her in, and opened the privacy screen between them and the driver. "Change of plans—"

* * *

Nights like these—glasses filled with red wine, mouth watering meals on the table, dinner on the rooftop—made her resolve melt. She was taught rationale and logic in a dozen languages, but she didn't know how to respond when her feelings took the wheel. She was clueless when it came to Max. He had bugged, tailed, and lied her, a complete violation of her privacy and a breach of trust. He was her handler and had a responsibility to the mission, but she knew his intentions were fueled by vengeance. She didn't know what he had against Joe Solomon, but it didn't seem like enough to justify tearing his life apart.

Cara hated being blindsighted, but she knew she would have to let down her guard eventually. While a lonely existence was common in her line of work, it wasn't practical. She wanted a life. She wanted someone to have her back, fight her wars… someone to come home to.

"So… Hampstead," Max said. He didn't elaborate, avoiding her gaze as he took a bite of their shared dessert.

There was a rock in the pit of her stomach. There were two ways this could go, and she knew she shouldn't expect much of an agent in his position. He hadn't brought up the topic in weeks and she thought he had forgotten.

She licked cream off her fork. "What about it?"

"The CIA-Interpol task force might become permanent," he trailed.

He was dancing around the subject, his English accent amplifying how professional he made the ordeal seem.

"Oh really? That's a good opportunity for the States to broaden their intelligence."

He hummed in agreement and watched the waiter whisk away their dishes. "I found an apartment in Hampstead, twenty minutes out from the headquarters in downtown London. I need one more name on the lease."

"You're going to have a hard time finding a roommate if there's just one bedroom," she said, amused.

He looked pained as he tried to get to his question. "You're very funny, Cara."

She put on her blazer as they prepared to leave. "Unless you turn the sitting room into a second bedroom. Then it might work."

He grimaced and gave her a pointed look. " _Cara_."

She rolled her eyes and laughed, taking his outstretched hand as they walked to their hotel. "Just ask me the question, Edwards."

Max was not nearly as amused as she was. "Will you help me find a flatmate?"

She scoffed and shoved him sideways. "Don't be an ass, Max."

"Really, conducting background checks isn't a one man job," he told her, grinning.

"Oh, God."

"The location is prime, which means I'll have options, but the price might be a turnoff." He was still laughing as he followed her across the lobby and into the elevator.

She gave him a stern frown. " _Max_."

He chuckled and kissed her furrowed brows. "You can have seventy percent of the closet."

"You better give me seventy percent of the bathroom vanity, too."

"What do you want next, seventy percent of the bed?" he said.

"No, I think we can share that," she told him, watching as he unlocked his door. "Unless, of course, you make that second bedroom."

" _Cara_."

She kicked off her heels, tossed her blazer on the bed, and then put them in the closet upon his eyebrow raise.

He shook his head. "You are a bloody handful, Pierce."

"Do we need to debrief about next steps? I'm sure you have another mission ready," she said. She spotted her bag—it had magically moved from her hotel to his—and decided not to ask questions.

"It's being sent to Solomon instead. You'll probably be asked to join him once he receives it." He sighed. "One night. Let's leave it to rest, yes?"

She was surprised by his request, considering how he had been acting slightly more obsessive over the Solomon case. He came forward and kissed her, long and soft.

Cara pulled back and frowned. "What's going on Max?"

He had started undoing her blouse, sliding the silky fabric down her shoulders. "Am I not allowed a night off?" he said, shrugging off his own shirt.

She let it drop.

Two hours later, Cara was awaken by her phone buzzing obnoxiously. Bleary, she untangled herself from Max's arms and reached for the nightstand. She unlocked it and a message popped up on the screen.

 _Circle elite in town. Someone is hunting you. Get out of the country. -JS_

Shit.

She tried to settle back into bed as quietly as she could and calm the nervous thrumming of her heart. This wouldn't be the first time someone dangerous was onto her, but the Circle was the last group she wanted to be mixed up in. Max had woken up from her rustling, and she heard his drowsy voice behind her.

"Everything okay?" he asked, kissing her shoulder.

She turned around to face him. She pressed a kiss to his jawline, and said, "It's just a bunch of emails. Should have turned my buzzer off."

He chuckled, turned onto his back and pulled her in. Her cheek settled on his bare chest. "What did I say about a night off, love?"

She closed her eyes and pushed the Circle out of her mind. "I know," she replied, forcing herself to relax.

The next time she woke up, someone was trying the door.


	16. Chapter 16

**AN:** Well, life hit pretty hard and I almost forgot about this fic. I had a complete chapter sitting in my files so here it is - a little shorter than most, but jam-packed with plot. I want to give a big thank you to the people that have stuck with this story and a promise that I'll be updating a LOT more. Please, please review!

 **CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

Max was out of bed in seconds and Cara whipped on a bathrobe. There was a reason they picked rooms with traditional locks rather than access cards. If anyone wanted to get inside, the extra milliseconds it took to turn the key saved lives.

The maid that opened the door gasped, hand over her heart. Her cheeks turned red when she saw Max, only wearing a pair of pajama bottoms, on the other side of the door. The bottle of cleaner and her dishcloth hung limply from her hand.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" she said, her accent thick. She sounded Eastern European, probably Albanian. She dropped the supplies back into the cart. Her blonde hair was tied into a bun and she nervously tucked loose strands behind her ear, rubbed her sweaty hands against her dress.

Max didn't buy her apology. "There was a sign on the knob," he said flatly.

She muttered a few indecipherable words under her breath and quickly turned on her heel. The wheels of her cart squeaked as she rolled down the hall.

Max looked perturbed as he shut the door.

"You did hang the sign. I remember," Cara said, wrapping her arms around herself.

Max grabbed her clothes and shoved them into her hands. "She was sent to check if we were here. We need to leave. Fast."

Next door, the maid pulled out a burner phone and dialed a number.

"Hello?"

"They are here, sir. Just as you thought they would be."

The recipient of her call sounded confused.

"They?"

"He had a woman with him. They were, um, in a state of undress."

"Ah, I understand. Thank you, Marie. I appreciate you."

She smiled. "Anything for you, Mr. Morgan."

Matt dropped the flip phone on the floor and crushed it under his shoes. He turned to Joe and raised an eyebrow. His friend poured himself a glass of whiskey and sighed.

"It didn't work. He has her wrapped around his fingers."

Matt put his hands in his pockets and shrugged, leaned back against the kitchen counter. "No. Something makes her go back to him. We need to be smarter."

Joe didn't respond. It took a year of tension and restraint to build up to that moment in the Sublevels. He was an expert at honeypot missions, but for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to put his best effort forward.

"It's out of my hands now. If we want her to trust us, we need to do it the right way. She needs to figure out for herself that Max is a lunatic. Deception isn't going to work here, Matt."

His friend chuckled. "That's the first time I've heard those words come out of your mouth, Solomon."

Joe grimaced. "And hopefully, the last."

* * *

Abby picked up a manila folder, flipping it open and staring at the photograph paperclipped to the first page. She grimaced. As much as she loved snooping, this had to be crossing a line. She doubted that the CIA spent billions on resources and building secure facilities for them to be using conference rooms and databases for their personal battles.

"Come on, Matt," she complained. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

He glanced at her over the stack of papers in his hand and raised his eyebrows. "We did this very exact thing for Max Edwards."

"So?"

"While we didn't find much, I didn't hear you complaining then."

She huffed. "Max Edwards isn't exactly a friend of ten years, nor do I have a lick of appreciation for him. I've known this woman forever and don't need to tear her inside out to tell you everything."

Abby looked at Joe for some support. He usually took her side and helped her make a case when the Morgans wouldn't listen. He pretended not to hear her and continued typing on his computer.

She scowled at him and there was the shadow of a smirk on his face.

Rachel popped into the room with her laptop and some paperwork. Her face was flushed and her eyes were bright, a clear sign that she had made a discovery. "You will not believe what I found."

Matt turned his head and raised his eyebrows. "Jeez, Rachel. Way to make us look bad. Seven hours and we could only dig up a dozen or so things that weren't kept under lock and key by the agency."

"That's because you're looking in the wrong places," she told him, taking a seat at the table. It was practically buried under papers and empty coffee mugs. "Someone went in and disabled the search query—she won't pop up in other people's profiles unless you go through and physically read the entry. So I went through and studied the language in her folders. Every handler has a very specific signature: words they use, phrases they like. I found a few useless things, like cases she's closed, but then I found this."

She pulled out a grainy photograph from a folder. It was a man dressed in a casual tee and jeans, a mischievous smirk on his face as he considered the camera.

"That's from security footage," Joe pointed out, squinting at the time stamp. "From two years ago. He wouldn't be in the system unless he had a headshot."

Rachel nodded. "Exactly. Because Jason Groves is not supposed to exist. Hell, he somehow magically appeared in this world at the age of twenty-eight. One of the few things in his file is a transcript of an interrogation done by MI-6 after an armed robbery in a museum. MI-6 had been onto him after tracking him at the scene of several thefts of crown jewels and paintings hours before they occurred. They shared notes with Interpol when they hit a few blockades while crossing borders, which ultimately got him caught."

Abby was frowning at the photograph, a troubled expression on her face. "Okay, but what the hell does this have to do with Cara Pierce?"

"Jason had a few things on him when he was arrested at a cafe near the Louvre. A phone, which he destroyed quickly, and a wallet. The wallet had his current identity, which could have been a fake one, but the police could never figure out what his real name was. There was also a photograph of him and his girlfriend, who the police thought was an associate, but he led them to her memorial site with a grave. There was a body inside and everything checked out when they did DNA tests and cross-checked his story with the facts."

Matt sighed. "Let me guess. The girlfriend was Cara?"

Rachel shook her head. "Nope. Her name was Corine Irvine. I don't know if this is a coincidence, but either the agencies involved were extremely inept, or someone was playing a very dangerous game."

She put a piece of paper in the center of the table, and amid her messy scrawl and several crossed out letters, they made out two words.

"Renoir, Vinci. Famous artists," Matt muttered. "The police, MI-6, and Interpol were being played into a very big game."

Rachel nodded and presented them with a ziplock bag. "And this is the photograph that had been admitted into evidence."

The small print was worn with age. Jason Groves had his arms around a young woman, the backdrop of a garden behind them. The couple was in the middle of laughter and stared into the camera with wide grins. Despite the creasing, there was no mistaking the lithe body and dark hair, the relaxed yet poised manner the woman held herself.

Abby was shell shocked. "Holy shit. That's—"

"Cara-fucking-Pierce." Joe rubbed a hand over his face, exhausted. "You found all of this in six hours?"

"Oh, this isn't even half of it, Solomon." Rachel pulled out a mugshot. Gone was the laughter in his eyes—Jason Groves looked lifeless. "He was put in a high security facility, where someone slipped him a few toxic pills. Guards found him with his mouth filled with foam in the corner of his cell. There was no reason for him to kill himself—there was talk of a negotiation to trade in a few pieces of artwork in exchange for a shorter sentence. They were looking into homicide."

"You said you searched for linguistic clues that linked Cara and her handler. Who is pulling all these strings? Whoever this person is, they're doing a hell of a job to keep this cold case closed and her name out of it," Matt reasoned.

Rachel sighed. "That's one thing we're never going to get access to. This handler has been with her for the entirety of her CIA career, and might have followed her to MI-6 and Interpol when she was commissioned to help with their cases. These people are like ghosts: no one will ever be able to find them and they only submit cases into archives once they are closed. You will never be able to find out what she is currently working on unless she wanted you to."

"But the Groves case isn't closed," Abby pointed out. "It was put into the archives so no one would ask any questions, wasn't it?"

Joe, who had been silent for a few minutes, interjected. "Motive is six things. Love, faith, greed, boredom, fear, and revenge. The handler closed the case so Cara could sneak through the bureaucracy without raising any red flags, and find out what happened when Jason was in prison."

Rachel nodded in agreement. "And who better to ask than the young Interpol agent who made a name for himself by busting one of the most wanted art thieves in the world."

The pieces in the puzzle were slowly coming together and Joe leaned forward. "We knew this about Max. Either he was involved in some sort of foul play, or there's a bigger picture here that made Cara target him."

Rachel shrugged, swiping her husband's coffee to take a drink after talking for so long. "Like you said, Joe. Motive is key."

They dissolved into silence. While Joe was relieved that he wasn't the root of the problem, he was still incredibly confused. After over a decade of being chased by the Circle and some misguided people that hunted the terrorist organization, he was used to knowing the good guys apart from the bad ones. Cara Pierce was somewhere in the middle, resting on a very thin line that divided the two. He didn't know if she was aware of it, but she was being used by Max for a much bigger game, just as she was using him. Spies lied, but the lies she told to hide such a questionable past made him pity her.

The thick air was broken by an expletive from a stunned Abby's mouth. "For fuck's sake," she grunted. "Why can't anything in our lives be straightforward?"

Matt glanced at his sister-in-law and fixed her with a look that screamed 'I told you so'.

"You've known her forever, huh?"


End file.
